


Black Water Rises

by DeadshotMusketeer



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-01-25 08:42:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12527432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadshotMusketeer/pseuds/DeadshotMusketeer
Summary: WIP.  Aramis centred.  Whump included.  Written specifically for the Halloween season.  While returning to Paris, the Musketeers stumble upon Black Water, a mysterious village on the northern coast of France.  Seemingly risen from the fog, Black Water holds more secrets than they care to encounter, and one in particular leads to a bloodcurdling realization.





	1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note;**  Special Thanks to **SanBaerli** for her exceptional beta reading._

* * *

Black Water Rises

Chapter One

 

Amidst a long journey back to Paris with his comrades, Aramis revelled at the vibrant colours of dying leaves framing the French countryside. Patches of maroons, yellows and bright oranges melded into a rich tapestry, and he breathed in its powerful woodsy fragrance.

Autumn brought crispness to the air that Aramis enjoyed. Tipping his hat off his brow he let the sun peeking through the clouds warm his wind-chilled face. It tingled his skin and awoke his senses while a mild wind blew across the open road. Mornings like this reminded him why he loved the northern coast. On his right, a cliff dropped away to the sea, the crashing waves across its shore a rhythmic cadence, and its pleasing sound made him smile. This time of year bolstered a symphony all its own, from the harmony of ruffled branches to the melody of birdsong that accompanied them all morning.

Nature in its grandness melded life and death through sound and colour, and Aramis could think of only one way to heighten the moment. Plucking the skin from his belt he took a long drink of wine, closing his eyes as he savoured its taste.

When he opened them again his brow furrowed, as up ahead, thick billows of fog swept across the forest road.   Eyes appraising what lay before him, he returned his wineskin to his hip. Judging the cloud too wide to go around, he crept his mount slow and steady into the wall of white mist; smoky tendrils swirling around his horse’s hooves like water flowing around rocks. He scowled and waved his hand in front of him, but the motion did nothing to disperse the cold white haze.

A glance over his shoulder revealed he was alone in the mysterious cloud. “Are you all still with me?” he called back to his comrades. “D’Artagnan! Porthos…”

The snicker of a horse preceded d’Artagnan’s appearance through the misty veil.   “You don’t have to yell. I hear you just fine.”

“Where are the others?” asked Aramis.

“I don’t know. They were right behind us.”

Silence followed d’Artagnan’s last words, heavy and visceral, pushing against Aramis’ eardrums until they throbbed. He stuck a finger in an ear and wiggled it. He cracked his jaw, shook his head, and a moment later the ache dissipated.

But he no longer heard birdsong amongst the trees or the branches creaking in the forest, or even the sea ravaging the steep cliffs not far from the road. The silence pressed in on him, crawling on his skin and sending a shiver slipping down his spine. 

Behind him, d’Artagnan pulled at his earlobes.

“Do you hear anything?” whispered Aramis.

“Only us,” replied d’Artagnan.

“Exactly. The fog is suffocating everything.”

“Except our voices. It sounds like you’re yelling.”

“Yet, I’m not.”

D’Artagnan shook his head. “I don’t like this. Athos and Porthos should have been here by now.”

Aramis nodded and slid off his horse, his neck hairs prickling when his boots hit the ground. Shivering, he led his mount off the path, hoping their brothers joined them quickly so they could be on their way.

A patch of crimson amongst the ghostly gossamer caught his attention. As this wasn’t a colour he could associate with any of his comrades, he stepped forward. Yellow, blue and green joined the crimson; bringing to life a pole made of painted creatures stretching nearly ten feet above his head. Carved into the wood, beastial monsters with bulging eyes stared back at him, drawing him closer to their twisted smiles and feral claws.

“My God,” he whispered.

Ruby eyes of a wooden bird perched on top bore into Aramis. Its wings cast an eerie shadow around him as if trying to scoop him into its clutches.

“It’s so haunting, yet beautiful,” he said, reaching forward.

“Maybe you shouldn’t touch that,” said d’Artagnan, sliding off his horse. “We don’t know what it is.”

Vibrations shook the ground, breaking Aramis from his stupor. Deep within the mist, the stomping of hoof beats across packed earth grew louder and louder until Athos and Porthos burst through the fog and reared to an abrupt stop.

Aramis approached them, hand clutched to his chest to remind himself to breathe. “What took you so long?”  

“We picked up our pace the moment you disappeared in this fog,” explained Athos, climbing down from his horse. “And the next moment we were nearly crashing into you.”

Porthos stared wide-eyed at the pole. “More importantly, what is that?”

“I don’t know,” replied Aramis, reaching again for the pole.

Porthos scratched his beard. “Maybe you shouldn’t do that.”

“That’s what I said,” huffed d’Artagnan.

Athos rolled his eyes. “Aramis, can’t you just leave well enough alone? We need to get back to Paris before the weather worsens and don’t have time to admire the artwork.”

“What’s the harm?” When Aramis pushed his palm against the wood, currents of buzzing energy shot through him. His eyes clamped shut, his body bucked backward, landing him on the ground at the base of the pole.

When his eyes opened, he was standing alone at the edge of a dark wood. Jagged peaks of treetops jutted into a black and grey sky, creating a serrated horizon. Blood pounded through him while panicked breaths rushed between his parted lips.

Pungent odours of rotting flesh filled his nostrils, he choked back bile. Cold penetrated his clothes, seeped through his skin and wrapped around his bones. He rubbed his arms turning slowly in a circle until deep rumblings shook the earth and trees, knocking him face first to the ground with his hands pressed into wet dirt.

He spared a hesitant glance upward, flinching when white lightning tore across the sky dripping thick crimson tendrils onto the earth until the forest glistened in blood. A shadow formed against the red canopy, growing larger with each moment, paralyzing Aramis with fear.

Not larger, Aramis realized with a gasp… closer.

Two wings unfurled from the shadow, beating frantically as it raced toward him with blood-red eyes and talons poised to pluck him from the earth.

Mumbling the Lord’s Prayer, Aramis huddled on the ground anticipating the tearing of skin and muscle from his bones, when a sting on his cheek yanked him across time and space. He opened his eyes, and seeing his friends hovering above him he muttered, “What… what happened?”

“You passed out,” Athos said. “Are you alright?”

Porthos shook his head while letting out a long breath. “I told you not to touch that thing.”

Aramis cleared his throat and lifted an arm for assistance. “I’m fine.” He shook his head, hoping to dislodge the images of blood and darkness dominating his senses, and saw a sheen of sweat covering his skin. He wiped it from his brow with trembling hands and wondered if his friends would think him touched in the head if he told them what he’d seen.        

“Do you hear that?” whispered d’Artagnan.

“What? What’s going on?” asked Porthos.

D’Artagnan cupped his ear. “Voices.”

Soft murmurings from within the cloud displaced Aramis’ vision from his mind. The voices grew louder with each step forward Aramis crept, until a dark shadow formed before him, stopping him short, and stealing his breath. His heart still pounded when instead of the creature he’d seen in his vision, the fog swirled away to reveal a weather-beaten cabin.

Bleak, tattered curtains draped its windowpanes, denying even the smallest glimpse of the happenings beyond. Malodorous brine and fish permeated the air; a layer of salt coated Aramis’ lips. When a dozen people and more wooden cabins appeared around him, he stumbled back. “What? When…”

“What… the…” muttered Porthos.

“How did we not see this?” asked Athos.

D’Artagnan raised his brows. “The fog? It parted?”

Aramis turned to them, eyes blinking. “You believe this was here the entire time?”

“I don’t know what to believe,” answered Porthos.

D’Artagnan waved to a woman in a blue-chequered dress walking past. “Excuse me,” he called. “What… What town is this?”

“Black Water,” she replied. She walked over to meet them at the edge of the village and curtsied. “Welcome. My name is Madame La Salle, but you may call me, Jeanette.”

D’Artagnan glanced at his brothers. “I’ve never heard of Black Water.”

“Neither have I,” said Athos. “How long has it been here?”

“Well, it’s been here as long as I have,” replied Jeanette.  

Porthos frowned. “Whose land is this?”

“It’s our land.”

“You own it?” asked d’Artagnan.

“It is owned by the King of France, silly,” said Jeanette. “We live here and tend to its needs.”

Preoccupied by the village, Aramis counted at least ten structures surrounding a central square, their log beams tarnished black, which contrasted harshly with the white mist hovering around their foundations. Looming over the square, a church cast dark shadows over those who passed by.

Aramis grimaced when he noticed the church’s boarded doors and broken shutters. Even the rosemary bushes planted around the entrance were unkempt and wild, deepening his frown. His gazed upward in search of comfort, but the broken weathered cross jutting up from the peak of the steeple roof, only broke his heart. He signed the cross and shook his head, then turned his attention to the residents of the village. 

Men with prominent brows and shoulders covered in thick pelts moved about the settlement talking with other townsfolk and going about their business. They seemed pale in comparison to any Spaniards or Frenchmen Aramis knew, and he sensed a darker undertone to their skin, leaving him hard pressed to conceive their heritage.

“… Magistrate?”

Aramis turned back to the conversation when Athos’ voice cut through his musings.

“Thunderbird,” Jeanette said. “He’s a very wise man. I shall bring you to meet him.”

Aramis stuck his head forward. “I’m sorry. Did you say his name is, Thunderbird?”

Jeanette smiled. “Yes. Strange, I know. It took some time for us to get accustomed to their names as well. But once you meet them, you too will think nothing of it.” 

“Indians!” announced Aramis with a clap of his hands.

Jeanette nodded. “Yes, some of the residents here are Mi’kmaq.”   She gestured for them to walk with her. “Perhaps it is best Thunderbird explain things. He has probably heard of your arrival and is most likely waiting to meet you.”

Eager to meet his first Indian, Aramis fell in line with his brothers. They followed Jeanette through the village square, but when they passed under the shadow of the neglected church, a tingle prickled his spine as if someone had walked over his grave. He looked over his shoulder to see the villagers engrossed with daily activities and paying him no heed. His unease intensified, urging him to try the other shoulder, but again he saw nothing suspicious.

“Must be the cold,” he muttered. 

Aramis typically looked to the church for comfort, but the sharp edges of the broken cross silhouetted by fog, now reminded him of the jagged treetops glistening in blood from his vision. When he crossed under its shadow, he averted his gaze, wrapped his arms around himself and quickly caught up with the others.  

Arriving at Thunderbird’s cabin, Aramis looked back on the village. Misty tendrils of fog crept around the cabins and townsfolk. Mesmerized by the ethereal beauty, and encumbered with lingering images of a bloody forest, Aramis jumped when a door creaked behind him.

“Thunderbird will be happy to meet you now,” said Jeanette. After ushering them into the cabin, she took her leave.

When Aramis stepped across the threshold he laid eyes on a man in a rocking chair. Grey and black stubble dotted his wrinkled chin, while hair adorned with beads and feathers fell onto his shoulders in silver waves. Light from a lantern hanging above him made his dark eyes shimmer like pools of obsidian.

Transfixed in their depths, Aramis caught himself leaning forward and shook his head to break the trance. To avoid further beguilement, he forced his gaze downward to where ornate necklaces hung between the loosely draped fabric of Thunderbird’s open shirt. Aramis had never seen jewellery like this before. He found it hard to tear his gaze away.

The man raised his hand, put a long pipe to his lips and took a puff before addressing them. “You seem a stout bunch of travellers,” he said. “Welcome to Black Water.”

Athos stepped forward. “I am Athos of the King’s Musketeers. This is Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan, also of the King’s regiment.”

Thunderbird stood, revealing a stature that rivalled Porthos’. “I am called Thunderbird of the Mi’kmaq. And I must admit, I’ve never had Musketeers before.”

“In this village?” asked Porthos.

Thunderbird’s lips slithered into a smile, his dark eyes glimmered. “Yes,” he said, staring at Porthos. “In this village.”

“This is French land, is it not?” asked Athos.

“My people believe no land belongs to anyone,” replied Thunderbird. He crossed the space between them with long strides and creaking floorboards underfoot. “And no one from Court has ever visited.”

“Not even to collect taxes?” asked d’Artagnan.

Thunderbird dipped his head.

Porthos chuckled. “Do you have room for one more resident?”

Thunderbird took his time looking Porthos up and down, his mouth twitching as if trying to hide a smile. When the tip of a tongue darted between Thunderbird’s lips, Aramis stepped in front of Porthos.

 _To each man their own_ , thought Aramis. _But this is neither the time nor the place_. Hoping to dislodge the man’s perverse interest in Porthos, he cleared his throat.

A steely glare from Thunderbird turned Aramis’ insides cold.

“We always have room for healthy men such as yourselves,” said Thunderbird. “How long is your stay in Black Water?”

“We are merely passing through,” replied Athos. “The weather seems to have brought us here.”

Thunderbird looked past them out the open door. “The fog visits frequently. If you are just passing through, I would be careful it is not watching and waiting to snare you in its trap.”

Aramis turned his head and whispered over his shoulder. “Interesting way of putting it,” he said. 

Porthos nodded. “Yeah. And I don’t like the way he’s looking at me either. I’m getting a strange feeling.”

“I’ve had one since we arrived in this town,” muttered Aramis.

“Bad weather does not concern me,” said Athos. “But I am interested in hearing about this village. I’m quite certain there is no Black Water registered with the Crown. How long has it been here?”

Thunderbird pointed to an oil painting hanging on the wall above a hearth where chipped and weathered wood framed the portrait of a three-mast ship pushing through turbulent water, its bowsprit flag bearing a fleur-de-lis. “The frigate, _Black Water._ A privateer ship chartered to return French citizens back to France many moons ago after a harsh winter in what you call, the Americas. Like myself, several Mi’kmaq joined the voyage, eager to whet our appetites on new lands to explore.”

Aramis walked to the painting where he stared at muted blacks and golds of an intricately painted forecastle, suggesting the ship possessed great wealth. “It’s beautiful,” he said. “Both the artistry and the ship. Where is it now?”

“All around us,” replied Thunderbird. “The _Black Water_ could not sustain the harsh weather that greeted us on our arrival. It splintered and sunk off the shore after a terrible battle with high winds and devastating waves. The sea took many passengers. But those of us who survived, salvaged the timber that washed on shore and built this village. Naming it Black Water after the ship.”

“How many survived?” asked Aramis.

“Everyone you see in this village,” replied Thunderbird.

Porthos raised his brows. “Didn’t people go home? They must have had families they wanted to see?”

With a crooked smile, Thunderbird bowed slightly. “It is not my place to tell their stories. Perhaps at your welcoming feast this evening you can inquire. Everyone will be in attendance, including yourselves.”

“I’m afraid we must decline the invitation,” said Athos. “We have business back in Paris.”

Aramis didn’t care for un-ended stories, he wanted to speak with the villagers, hear their tales. “Perhaps there’s time to stay for a bit and feed the horses?”

“I’m sorry, Aramis,” Athos said in a strident voice. “But we must not keep the King waiting.”

Aramis knew the King wasn’t awaiting their return, but recognized conviction in Athos’ tone. “My friend is right,” he said, reluctantly. “We will not be able to attend this evening.” 

Thunderbird’s eyes narrowed, his hands slid behind his back puffing out his chest. “To refuse is an insult.”

“And yet… we are willing to accept the consequences of our impolite behaviour,” stated Athos.  

Thunderbird exhaled a quick breath. “You will be at the feast whether Paris needs you or not.”

Athos pulled himself to full height. “Is that a threat?”

“It is what the weather wishes,” replied Thunderbird.

“A little fog’s never stopped us before,” stated Porthos.

“So if you will excuse us,” Athos said with a slight bow. “We’ll be on our way.”

Thunderbird nodded and gestured toward the door. “If you insist on trying, perhaps the fog will be kind enough to allow you safe passage. But I doubt it will be so generous.”

Dread crept up Aramis’ spine as he proceeded after his friends. Being a marksman, he’d always relied on his instincts, prided himself on his foresight, yet after hearing Thunderbird’s last words, he didn’t know whether to run from this village, or fight to stay so he could sate his curiosity.

“Anyone else feel their skin crawling?” asked Porthos.

“That was both strange and unique,” replied Aramis.

Athos sighed and pushed his hat off his brow. “Let’s just put this behind us." 

“Will we be reporting this village to the King?” asked d’Artagnan.

“Of course,” replied Athos.

Aramis ignored the rest of the conversation as they crossed through the village toward their horses. The Indians of this settlement had never met Musketeers, yet they pushed their carts, shared conversation and mended horseshoes as if four armed soldiers weren’t walking through their central square. Even the French citizens seemed indifferent to them.

In Paris, where they presented a regular fixture, the citizens at least glanced at them with either respect or disapproval when they walked down the streets.

Aramis lifted his hat and ran a hand through his hair. His instincts and apprehension be damned, he wanted to know more. “There’s something bewildering about this village and it’s people,” he said.

D’Artagnan scoffed. “That’s one word for it.”

“The only _bewildering_ thing about Black Water is that it doesn’t appear on any maps I’ve seen,” said Athos. “So I suspect these villagers returned from the Americas unannounced and are simply hiding from the King’s taxes. I have no patience for such impudent behaviour.”

“All valid points,” said Aramis. “But that doesn’t explain how it appeared out of the fog." 

Athos sighed. “Like d’Artagnan suggested earlier, the fog was probably too thick for us to have seen it.”

A logical explanation, but Aramis couldn’t stop himself from testing Athos’ limits. “I would enjoy learning about life in the New World. The Jesuits tell astonishing tales of the Indians and their gods. Perhaps there is a thesis…”

“It will have to wait for another day,” stated Athos, his voice brooking no argument.

Aramis hung his head. “If it must.”

They continued past the church and cabins, and when they reached the painted pole at the entrance, they climbed onto their horses. Athos pulled in front. Aramis and the others fell in behind him, clearing the edge of town and joining the road toward Paris as the wall of fog once again closed in around them.

When they entered the forest, crisp air burrowed through Aramis’ clothes down to his bones. He shivered and pulled his cloak from a saddlebag, but felt no relief after shrugging it over his shoulders.  

With the silence mimicked by the sullen weather around them, Aramis fidgeted in his saddle. He listened for waves crashing against the rocky shore and birdsong in the trees, hearing nothing but the snicker of Porthos’ horse behind him. And when he looked forward to check on d’Artagnan and Athos, he could barely see them.

D’Artagnan spoke his thoughts. “Are we sure we’re going the right way?”

“We entered the village from the north and we left heading south,” replied Athos. “This road leads back to Paris… I’m sure of it.”

“You don’t sound so convincing, my friend,” said Aramis.

“Well, it certainly leads away from Black Water,” replied Athos. 

Porthos pointed ahead. “Are you sure of that?” 

Aramis followed his friend’s line of sight, his jaw dropping when through the fog he saw a tall pole with a bird carved into the top. “How can this be? We haven’t travelled long enough to circle the village.”

“Then it must be a different pole,” said Athos. “Now keep up, I don’t want us getting separated.”

Aramis hitched his cloak higher and continued on. A few moments later he was staring slack-jawed at the village square of Black Water.

 “How could we have possibly gotten lost?” asked d’Artagnan.

“We are not lost,” stated Athos.

“Of course not,” said Porthos. “We’re in Black Water.”

“Again,” added d’Artagnan.

Aramis’ eyes were drawn to Thunderbird’s cabin when he felt the old man staring at them. He squirmed in his saddle, wondering what to make of the man’s judicious interest in them.

“I must have missed a path,” said Athos, circling his horse to face Aramis and the others. “We will be more diligent this time.”

Aramis followed his friends past the mysterious pole and back into the fog. Not long later he was standing in Black Water’s centre square with Porthos and d’Artagnan while Athos went in search of directions.

“Let’s face it,” said Porthos. “The fog's too thick. We’re better off staying here until it goes.”

“Especially with that cliff nearby,” said d’Artagnan.

“Wouldn’t be so bad spending the night here though,” Porthos said, sniffing the air. “Smells like something good is cooking.”

Aramis inhaled scents of tarragon and sage. “It does smell good.”

He looked at Thunderbird, who continued to watch them closely. If the fog didn’t let up, and Athos stopped leading them in circles, Aramis felt he might get that chance to speak with the mysterious man and learn about the village and its people. His grumbling stomach also reminded him that a hot meal would certainly dampen the inconvenience of being stuck in Black Water.

“Here comes Athos,” said d’Artagnan.

Athos approached with long strides and mouth set in a grim line. “Everyone says the road south leads to Paris.”

“And yet…” said d’Artagnan, glancing around the square. “We are here.”

Aramis saw an opportunity and pounced. “I agree with Porthos, the fog is too thick. We should wait till morning or until the fog thins.”

Athos braced his hands on his hips. “I hate to admit it, but I think you’re right. Aramis, Porthos, find us a place to stay for the evening. As much as this village irritates me, I don’t want to be out in the woods in this weather. D’Artagnan and I will find shelter for the horses.” 

After Athos and d’Artagnan left, Aramis turned to Porthos with a coy smile. “Perhaps Thunderbird knows of a place to stay?”

“And maybe that invitation to dinner still stands?” replied Porthos, patting his belly.

“Always thinking with your stomach, my friend.”

“And you just want to speak with that man over there,” Porthos said, indicating the cabin with a nod of his head. “Strange, I could have sworn he was just there.”

“So we meet again,” said a soft voice.

Aramis turned around to see Jeanette La Salle standing behind him. “A friendly face,” he said, smiling. “We were looking for Thunderbird. Do you know where he is?”

“Out and about I’m afraid. He keeps a small cabin a lieu outside the village. It’s hard to find if one doesn’t know to look for it. Perhaps he has gone there.”

“What’s it for? Why’s it out so far?” asked Porthos.

“No one knows. Visitors are forbidden. But perhaps I can be of help?”

A soft smile pulled her lips, and for a brief moment Aramis forgot the details of their unfavourable situation and indulged in her pleasant appearance. Locks of long, blonde hair fell from a messy bun onto her shoulders, reminding him of someone back in Paris. A delicate nose and long lashes accentuated her pretty features, compensating for the greyish pallor of her skin. When Aramis gazed at the colourful jewellery around her neck, he stepped closer to admire it. “That is an interesting piece,” he said.

Jeanette ran her fingers along the necklace resting on her chest. “Feathers and porcupine quills. And the bear pendant is carved from oyster shell. It was a gift…” She glanced into the distance, furrowed her brow. “From someone… I don’t remember his name. But I believe he stayed in Acadia.”

“Is Acadia the name of the settlement you left?” asked Aramis.

“Yes.”

“I would love to hear more about it,” said Aramis.

Porthos cleared his throat. “We were wondering if there was a place to stay for the night?”

Aramis stepped back from Jeanette. “Yes, right, a place to stay.”

“The inn is across the square,” she said, pointing out a two-story building beyond the church.

Aramis smiled, tipped his hat in thanks, then proceeded with Porthos toward the inn. After the grim silence outside, he looked forward to cheering and the clinking glasses of a boisterous crowd. However, when they crossed the threshold, he saw that the only patron was a pasty looking gentleman standing behind a counter across the room.

The empty space felt strangely uncomfortable to Aramis. To his left, a long oak table dressed with porcelains and cutleries sat without patrons, and to his right several smaller tables were surrounded by chairs that should have been filled this time of day. And when he approached the innkeeper, the loud clomping of his boots on the plank floor accentuated the eerie silence of the room, sending chills running up and down his arms.

Aramis swallowed his unease and removed his hat. “Good day,” he said, to the innkeeper. “My friends and I are looking for four beds.”

“And something to eat,” added Porthos.

The innkeeper produced two keys from inside his beaded leather vest then pointed to the staircase to his right. “I have rooms upstairs with two beds each. Thunderbird has arranged a feast this evening in your honour that will begin promptly at eight. I advise you be on time. Thunderbird is very strict on protocol, so we oblige him as much as we can.”

“He must have been very confident we would stay,” Aramis whispered to Porthos.

“Thunderbird is a sage man,” stated the innkeeper.

Aramis scowled and snatched the keys. “Thank you… for the rooms.”

Neither of them felt the need to inspect the rooms, and since Athos and d’Artagnan hadn’t returned from stabling their horses, Aramis suggested they stroll through the village then look for the cabin Jeanette mentioned earlier.

“You mean the one Jeanette said was forbidden?” Porthos asked.

Aramis raised his brows. “That makes it all the more intriguing.”

“And foolhardy.”

“When has that ever stopped us before?”

Aramis knew he won the argument when Porthos lowered his head and grumbled in reluctant agreement.

When they entered the forest, thundering waves roared in the distance, while a blanket of fog wrapped around them once more. With Porthos close behind, Aramis wove through the trees, pushing aside branches, his feet tangling with overgrown roots until he spotted a path. They followed it a short distance, until the sounds of crashing waves grew loud in their ears, indicating the path led to the sea, not a cabin.

Aramis loved the sea; he felt both peace and vitality standing on the shores of its great expanse. When he gazed out over the never-ending vista of waves coming from places unknown, his troubles seemed small in comparison. So he continued onward with only minor regret at not finding the cabin, and a short while later they were standing at the edge of a cliff.

The cliff face sloped away beneath their feet, and through a thin veil of fog, they witnessed the sea smashing against the shore, a relentless force annihilating earth and rock. No wind prevailed, but the cold air nipped at their exposed skin like tiny daggers.  

Porthos rubbed his arms. “Maybe we should head back. Athos and d’Artagnan are probably waitin’ for us by now.”

Aramis had no intention of turning back now, at least not until he got one good look at the ocean. “Where’s your sense of adventure? Besides, the open sea is a marvellous sight. Athos and d’Artagnan can wait.” 

“I’m more of a land lover,” retorted Porthos. “And, I don’t wanna chance getting lost out here.”

“We won’t get lost.”

“That’s what Athos said.”

To his right, Aramis located another path sloping down to a sandy portion of shore where the waves didn’t reach. They took it slow and steady until they reached sea level where Aramis stood facing the great expanse, watching long lines of whitecaps rushing toward shore and breaking at the reef to go their separate ways. Taking a moment to relish his first fraction of peace since entering Black Water, Aramis drew in a long breath, savoured the salty air filling his lungs and marvelled at the contradiction of lazy white mist hovering over an angry sea.

“Ah, Aramis,” called Porthos. “You should come look at this.”

Aramis turned to his friend who was standing and pointing behind a rock further down the shoreline. Aramis approached, peered over the boulder then drew his head back and signed the cross. “My god.”

Porthos lowered his head and sighed. “We just had to go explorin’ didn’t we?”

The body of a dead woman lay on the wet sand; pale skin and muscle stripped away by either the sea or scavengers to reveal greyish-white bones. Aramis knelt beside her, disturbing a cloud of feasting flies. The odour of vinegar and brine stung his throat; he covered his nose with his handkerchief and studied the rest of her body.  

Long reddish-blonde hair clung to her head, splayed out like crooked sunbeams. In the small cavern of her hollow skull lay dead minnows tangled in seaweed. Aramis choked back bile, sent his gaze further down the cadaver where broken rib bones jutted through a tattered dress, their jagged peaks dangling seaweed and flotsam.

Colourful beads around her neck caught his eye and he carefully pulled out a necklace out from under the neckline of the dress.

His heart turned cold and heavy. “Beads and porcupine quills,” he whispered. “And look… a bear carved from an oyster shell like the one Jeanette is wearing.”

Porthos’ mouth dropped open. He closed it quickly and stood. “Naw. It can’t be hers. This body’s been dead for… for forever. It’s probably just a similar necklace.”

Aramis noted the corpse’s faded blue dress with a cant of his head. “Jeanette was wearing… _is_ wearing this same dress.”

“It can’t be the _same_ dress,” Porthos said, shaking his head. “So don’t go puttin’ strange thoughts in my head.”

Aramis stood. “Porthos. What is going on here? Could this be Jeanette La Salle?”

“It can’t be her, we just saw her in the village. There’s no way she got down here, died and decomposed that fast.” 

“But Porthos…”

Porthos pointed a finger at Aramis. “Aramis. Stop. There’s no funny business going on here and you’re startin’ to frighten me. This is not Jeanette, and I’ll prove it.” He turned and headed toward the path that led back to Black Water, the fog swallowing him whole before Aramis ran to catch up.


	2. Chapter 2

Black Water Rises 

Chapter Two

After hitching and feeding the horses at Black Water’s stable, Athos and d’Artagnan returned outside to wait for their brothers. They leaned against the side of the barn digesting their bleak surroundings, Athos in particular, curious about the weather. Rain-bloated clouds blanketed the sky, casting Black Water into a monochrome world of greys, making him wonder if this town ever saw sunlight. This part of France was notorious for bad weather, but never had he experienced fog heavy enough to thwart his sense of direction.  

“It’s almost creepy, isn’t it?” asked d’Artagnan, rubbing his arms. “The way the fog slithers through the village, lingering at doorstops and hovering around people’s feet.”

Athos honed his attention on the residents to discover their lower bodies obscured by grey mist. “Like ghosts not ready to ascend,” he said, absently.

D’Artagnan chuckled. “Gee thanks, that makes me feel a lot better.”

Athos pushed off the wall to face him directly. “I’m sorry, but something is wrong in this village. And I’m not only referring to the weather. I’ve felt nothing but suspicious since we arrived, and Thunderbird’s uncanny foresight is not sitting well with me. How could he possibly know we wouldn’t be able to leave?”

“And did you see the way he looked at Porthos?”

Athos arched an eyebrow. “I saw. But Aramis intervened, so I held myself in check.”   He leaned back against the wall. “Thunderbird is hiding something. I just don’t know what… yet.”

“Not paying taxes?”

“I suspect much more than that.”

Porthos’ booming voice startled them both. Athos turned toward the forest and saw him emerging from the fog like an angry bull released from its pen.

“No, no, no!” Porthos yelled, stomping into the settlement.

Aramis ran behind him trying to catch up. “Porthos, listen to me,” he called.

“No, I don’t have to listen to you. Not when I can prove it isn’t her!” Porthos plodded on, his eyes darting back and forth. “Where is she?”

Athos caught his friend by the arm. “Who?” he asked. “What is going on with you two?”

Porthos’ eyes were wider than Athos had ever seen them. “Jeanette La Salle,” replied Porthos.

“Why are you looking for her? What has she done?”

“We may have a problem,” Aramis said, stepping into the conversation. “Well, we definitely have a problem.”

D’Artagnan dropped his crossed arms to rest his hands on his hips. “What happened?”

Aramis frowned. “We found a dead body on the shore… and…”

Porthos pulled out of Athos’ grip. “Stop it, Aramis. You’re speaking nonsense,” he growled, before stomping toward Thunderbird’s cabin.

Athos turned to Aramis. “Explain.”

Aramis drew a breath and exhaled slowly while pushing his hat off his brow. “The body has long since expired, but we recognized the dress and necklace as those worn by Madame La Salle, the woman we met earlier.”

D’Artagnan shrugged. “So? Two women wear the same dress and jewellery. It’s not unheard of.”

“You don’t find it odd?” asked Aramis.

“Odd, perhaps,” said Athos. “But more importantly, a dead body on the shore is Musketeer business. So why is Porthos upset about this?”

Aramis glanced at the ground. “I may have… _merely_ , suggested that it _was_ Jeanette La Salle’s dead body.”

D’Artagnan cocked an ear forward. “What was that?”

“You heard me quite clearly.”

“You tried to convince Porthos Jeanette was a ghost?” hissed Athos. “Why would you rile him up with such nonsense?”

Aramis scratched his beard. “It may not be nonsense.”

“Enough,” stated Athos. “First let me handle Porthos, then I’ll deal with you.”

Athos caught up with Porthos outside Thunderbird’s cabin, where he grasped his friend’s shoulder before he could enter. “What exactly are you about to do?”

“I’m just gonna ask where she is.”

Athos crossed his arms over his chest. “First, we will investigate what you and Aramis found. If a subject has been murdered on French soil then it is our business to attend to its custody and find the culprit responsible. And if the body is found to have died of natural causes, then we’ll proceed accordingly, find the family and have her laid to rest.”

“What if Aramis is right? What if it is Jeanette La Salle we found on the beach?”

Athos sighed. He couldn’t afford Porthos distracted by Aramis’ wild imaginings. “Do you honestly think that’s true? Do you really believe we were talking with a ghost earlier? An actual apparition?”

Porthos scowled. “When ya put it that way… no.” He stomped his foot, clenched his fists. “Aramis just had me going.”

Athos rolled his eyes. Perhaps it wasn’t Porthos who needed mollifying. “Aramis does have a flare for the dramatic.”

He ushered Porthos down the front steps, back toward the others. “We will look into this together before anyone jumps to macabre conclusions. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation. Now lead us to the body.”

_~M~_

“It was right here!” shouted Porthos, pointing at the ground.

“She,” corrected Aramis, signing the cross. “The body is a _she._ That we know for sure.”

Porthos glared at him before turning to Athos. “I’m tellin’ ya, s _he_ , was right here!”

Athos looked at the ground beside the rock, watched frothy waves roll up over the shore and back out to sea. “Well, there’s nothing here now.”

“Maybe she was behind a different rock,” replied Porthos. He walked away and started searching behind nearby rocks.

“Jeanette’s body was right here,” insisted Aramis. “Not elsewhere. Unless… unless god has risen her and… and she’s also walking around that village up there.”

“Is that your way of… _merely_ _suggesting_?” chided d’Artagnan.

Athos frowned, shook his head. “Do you mean to tell us you really think the Jeanette we met is an apparition?”    

Aramis removed his hat, scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what to believe. I just know that we saw her in the village and then dead on the beach. And not recently dead. Dead, dead. For a very long time.”

Athos spent many years haunted by the ghosts of both his dead wife and murdered brother, and knew how easy one could lose themselves in such beliefs. It was a dangerous path that, for him, led to drinking and despair. He couldn’t allow his men to fall victim to the same demons, so he hoped that by directing the conversation away from Aramis’ theory and toward facts, he would keep them grounded until they uncovered the truth.

Athos glanced up the cliff to where its edge disappeared into the white mist. “Do you think murder was the cause of death, or could Jeanette have fallen?”

“Perhaps she went over the cliff,” replied Aramis. “But that doesn’t rule out murder. Jeanette could have been pushed.”

“Well, you saw the body. Did you see any signs of foul play?” asked d’Artagnan. “And could we _please_ stop referring to the corpse as Jeanette until we find proof? It’s a little disturbing.”

Aramis hung his head before looking at d’Artagnan. “I didn’t have time to look for cause of death. And with a body decomposed to that degree, it would be hard to tell.”

Porthos returned from his search shaking his head. “I know what I saw. There was definitely a body here, but why it’s gone now… I have no idea.”

“I believe you,” assured Athos. But sensing his men’s restlessness he added, “Someone must have moved Jean… the body.”

“I’m almost certain it was Jeanette La Salle lying here,” stated Aramis, pointing at the sandy shore. “Same height. Same dress. Same necklace. How could it not be her?”

Athos leaned close to Aramis’ ear. “Enough,” he seethed. “I’m in no mood to deal with a frenzied Porthos, so I suggest you keep your thoughts to yourself before you completely unsettle him. Now go and sort him out.”

After a huffed breath and quick nod, Aramis stepped closer to Porthos and patted him on the shoulder. “Perhaps I am letting my imagination get to me,” he said, leading Porthos back to the path.

Athos watched them disappear into the fog then beckoned d’Artagnan close.

“Seems you were right,” said d’Artagnan. “Something is amiss in Black Water.”

Athos grunted. “But I was thinking more along the lines of illegal dealings, not murder and ghosts,” he said with a smirk.

“That does complicate things.”

“Yes, but unfortunately we can’t pick the problems that land at our feet. Now go find the real Jeanette La Salle while Aramis removes this ghost nonsense from Porthos’ mind. I’m going to have a little chat with Thunderbird.”

“What for?”

“Information. A dead body is still a dead body, missing or not, and the matter needs to be addressed.”

_~M~_

Athos found Thunderbird sitting crossed legged on the porch of his residence. With closed eyes and palms resting on his knees, he sat still as stone.

“Hello, Athos of the King’s Musketeers.”

Athos stopped a few steps from the bottom of the porch. “How did you know it was me?”

“Let’s say a little bird told me and leave it at that,” replied Thunderbird. He opened his eyes and stood. “Where are your friends?”

“The little bird didn’t tell you?”

“It doesn’t tell me everything.”

Athos sighed. “Are you aware of anyone missing from your village?”

“No one is missing.”

“The body of a young woman resembling Jeanette La Salle was found on the shore.” 

“Is it there now?”

“No.”

Thunderbird smiled. “Then what is the problem?”

Athos drew himself to full height. “Where is Madame La Salle?”

“She is a woman of the Earth, not of my possession. She is where she is.”

“Alive, I presume?”

“Is that really the question?”

Athos rested a hand on the hilt of his sword and stepped forward. “Two of my companions found the body, but when we returned to the scene later it was gone. The identity has yet to be confirmed, but I assure you we won’t rest until the matter is resolved.”

Athos had no reason to believe Thunderbird had committed murder, but he was certain the old man was up to something. Unsure whether to proceed questioning Thunderbird without sufficient proof, he decided to end this fruitless conversation and headed to the inn.

He found Aramis and Porthos sitting in the back nursing two large mugs of ale. Athos tipped his hat in their direction but chose to sit at an empty table near the door with his back to the wall to think things over.

He ordered wine from the innkeeper and told him to leave the bottle after he poured him a glass. Before Athos took his first sip, the tavern door flew open revealing an eager d’Artagnan. He stood in the doorway scanning the room, then nodded at Athos before striding over to Aramis and Porthos.

Athos watched the young man talk with their friends, then return to the door. When d’Artagnan leaned outside and ushered Jeanette La Salle into the inn, Athos followed them to the table where Aramis and Porthos were sitting.

They rose from their seats, Aramis’ expression a mixture of confusion and surprise, while Porthos smiled broadly.

“See, I told ya it wasn’t Jeanette’s body,” Porthos whispered to Aramis, before sitting smugly back in his chair.

Aramis frowned and shook his head.

Athos eyed them both wearily then addressed Jeanette. “Madame,” he greeted, with a tip of his hat. “So it seems you are alive and well?”

Jeanette frowned. “Was there cause to believe otherwise?”

“Of course not,” said Aramis. He hurried around the table and pulled out a chair. “Please, we would love to hear more about your town.”

“And perhaps about any family you might have in Black Water,” added Athos, taking a seat next to Aramis and sharing with him a raised eyebrow. “Perhaps a sister?”

“It is only my father and I,” replied Jeannette.

“Any popular dressmakers in Black Water?” asked d’Artagnan.

Jeannette furrowed her brow. “Of course not, what an odd question.”

The innkeeper arrived with two fresh mugs of ale, and placed them on the table before stepping back.

“It is rude to drink in the company of others without offering,” said Aramis. “Please bring a bottle of your finest wine.”

“Oh no,” replied Jeanette. “I shouldn’t. Thunderbird has prepared a feast for you tonight.” She nodded at the long table on the other side of the inn. “It wouldn’t be wise to drink beforehand. But I’m sure you sturdy young men can handle your fill, so please enjoy.”

She rose from her chair and curtsied. “If you will excuse me, I have things to tend to,” she said, and walked toward the door.

“The innkeeper also mentioned something about this feast,” said Aramis. “As if Thunderbird knew we would be staying in Black Water.”

Athos braced his elbows on the table and massaged his temples to alleviate his budding headache. “If I believed mortal men could control the weather, I’d wager Thunderbird caused the foggy conditions trapping us here. I have this sneaking suspicion he knew we would be unable to refuse his invitation.”

“And what about the dead body?” asked d’Artagnan.

“There is that,” added Aramis. “What’s our plan?”

Having left his wine at his table, Athos dragged Aramis’ mug of ale toward him and took a long swallow. “D’Artagnan and I will search for the body while you and Porthos attend this feast.”

Aramis nodded and turned to Porthos. “I’m sure you’re happy to hear you’ll get to fill your belly,” he said.

“I’m even happier that was Jeanette sitting across from us,” replied Porthos.

Athos’ headache presented a dull ache between his temples. He couldn’t have his soldiers so easily distracted; they’d need their wits about them if they were to solve the mystery of the missing dead body and uncover the secrets he felt Thunderbird surely kept.

Athos stood and whispered in Aramis’ ear. “Keep him calm. For the sake of all our sanities, we have to keep a logical mind about this until we find a reasonable explanation.”

“And if you don’t?” asked Aramis.

Athos looked sternly at him. “I will, because there has to be one. And I’ll start with finding that body. Now, where are our rooms?”

Aramis passed him a key from his pocket. “Upstairs.”

“We will meet you later tonight,” he said. “And Aramis, I trust you will use your considerable social graces this evening to uncover the hidden secrets of this village. And be sure to talk to Thunderbird. Make him aware we are investigating him. I want him on edge, perhaps he’ll slip up and reveal what this town, or more accurately he, is hiding.”

Aramis dipped his head. “Consider myself your eyes and ears to Black Water’s dirty little secrets.”

Athos left the tavern with d’Artagnan, doubtful whether Aramis would be on his best behaviour. When focused, Aramis could charm the habit off a nun, but with thoughts of ghosts addling his mind his concentration might lapse. However, it was out of Athos’ control, he and d’Artagnan needed to find this body.

Outside the inn, Athos stood with his hands braced on his hips looking up at a starless night sky.   “We’ll need torches before we go,” he said to d’Artagnan, then started for the stable.

“Where are we going to look first?” asked d’Artagnan.

“Where the body was last seen.”

“What do you expect to find? There was nothing there the last time.”

“Do you have any better ideas?”

After retrieving torches from the stable, they headed into the forest. Shadows cast by their flickering lights danced and twitched like ethereal creatures around them. Athos carefully wove his way through the underbrush, eyes darting back and forth as the dark menacing shadows followed them to the sea.

A twig snapped behind him. He turned, heart racing and hand rushing to the hilt of his sword.

“Sorry. Just me,” said d’Artagnan.

Athos breathed deeply. “I’m letting Aramis’ imagination get the better of me,” he mumbled.

When they arrived at the beach the temperature dropped considerably. Athos' breath escaped as a white cloud before dispersing into the fog. He tucked his torch under his arm and rubbed his hands together, wishing he’d brought his cloak.

D’Artagnan crouched behind the rock where Aramis and Porthos had found the body, and ran his fingers across the wet sand. “Even if there were footprints, they’re gone now.”

A wave rolled onto shore, stealing away the marks he’d left in the sand with his fingers. D’Artagnan stood and slowly cast his torch back and forth. “There are tracks back here, but they could be ours. Maybe the body washed out to sea?”

Water slapped against the rocky shoreline, splashing Athos’ boots. “It’s possible,” he replied. “Let’s check the shoreline to see if it surfaced elsewhere. The tide doesn’t seem strong enough now to wash a body back, but that doesn’t mean it couldn’t have done so earlier.”

D’Artagnan turned to face him, his brows pulling together in a crooked line. “Tell me something first,” he said.

“What?”

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

“No.”

Athos held up his torch, throwing smudges of amber and orange into the dense mist looming over the dark shore. The colours danced with the fog, swirling and swaying together over the sea like fire and smoke lingering over a burning building.

Like the night he’d thought he’d seen his dead wife.

She’d stood in the antechamber amidst glowing flames and embers. The fire accentuated the hatred burning in her eyes, and his inebriated self thought her an apparition; a demon raised from hell to take her revenge.  

A wisp of air brushed Athos’ neck, sending icy fingers down his spine. He shivered and turned to d’Artagnan. “Well, maybe. Why do you ask?”

D’Artagnan’s fidgeting hands moved to his hips, his eyes cast downward as he stared at the ground. “I did… as a child. Now? I’m not so sure. There’s certainly a lot in this world I don’t understand.” He met Athos’ gaze with a soft smile. “Aramis seems to believe, though.”

Athos canted his head to the side. He didn’t share a monogamous relationship with god, his faith tended to waver more often than not, but the same could not be said for Aramis “That is because Aramis believes the soul eternal, opening his mind to all possibilities.”

“What about you? Are you open to possibilities?”

“There is also a lot in this world I don’t understand,” he replied with a smirk. He bent his head to catch d’Artagnan’s gaze from under the brim of his hat. “But there was a time, not long ago, when I could have sworn I’d seen a ghost.”

“That night in Pinon? I remember.”

Athos nodded and reached out to squeeze d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Let’s go find us a body.”

After scouring the shoreline for nearly an hour, and cursing his lack of a cloak, Athos called to d’Artagnan. “I believe we have a problem.”

D’Artagnan rushed to his side. “Did you find the body?”

Athos pointed to the ground. “I found _a_ body. Unfortunately, I suspect it’s not the right one.”

The man lying at their feet had died long ago. His clothing hung tattered on a skeletal frame. Remnants of skin, barely tethered to the bones and joints, flapped with the waves washing over it. Around the waist, pants far too big for the decaying body rested on hip bones covered in seaweed.

A crab scurried out of an empty eye socket and d’Artagnan turned away. “Oh, that’s disgusting.” 

“That it is,” replied Athos.


	3. Chapter 3

Black Water Rises

Chapter Three

Flickering lanterns cast shadows on the festive wreaths hanging on the walls on the inn. Scents of charring pine needles and withered wood burning in the hearth infused the room, while its heat kept the outside chill at bay. Combined with the aromas of roasted meats and herbs wafting from the table, the comfort of the inn provided a welcome distraction for Aramis. Jeanette’s existence still confused him, leaving him wondering if she was indeed a ghost.

Her earlier presence at the inn should have put his mind at ease, but instead, he couldn’t shake his suspicions that it had been her body at the beach. The resemblance was too close.

Beside him, Porthos tugged at his shirt collar. “I hope this damn fog clears up by mornin’, so we can get the hell outta here. I’ve had about as much of Black Water as I can handle.”

“I hear you, old friend,” Aramis replied. “But try and relax. Right now, we’re just sitting amongst normal people, enjoying a normal meal.”

Porthos drew in a deep breath and released it quickly. “I’m tryin’. But it ain’t easy.”

Aramis patted his shoulder. “Try harder. The worry evident on you face is going to scare the other guests.”

Aramis sat back in his chair and surveyed the room. Around him, the villagers sitting at the table and milling around the inn kept to themselves, their vacant stares and lack of idle chat making it hard for Aramis to initiate conversation. So when the front door opened heralding Thunderbird’s arrival, the sudden chatter from the crowd struck Aramis as odd.

“Why is there a fire burning?” bellowed Thunderbird, stopping short of the table. “Extinguish the flames at once!”

The harsh demand startled Aramis, while around him several villagers scurried for buckets of water to douse the flames.

Beside him, Porthos furrowed his brow. “What’s all this about?” 

“I don’t know,” replied Aramis with a shrug.

When the last burning ember fizzled to ash, a cold chill invaded the room. Thunderbird lowered himself into the chair in front of the hearth undeterred by the temperature drop, and gazed languidly around the table; his watchful eyes never resting anywhere long enough to invoke conversation.

“Well then, can we start eating?” whispered Porthos. “Or are we supposed to wait for the host to start?”

Aramis leaned toward him. “In polite society, yes, we wait. So I suggest we use the time to get to know these people.”

Aramis straightened and turned to the man sitting on his left. “Good-evening. My name is Aramis, and who might you be?”

The elderly gentleman beside him smiled and nodded. “Monsieur La Salle.”

“Ah, Jeanette’s father.” When La Salle nodded his confirmation, Aramis continued. “How long have you been in Black Water?”  

“As long as I can remember,” the man replied in a weak voice. His gaze drifted aimlessly across the room. “There was this other town…” He shook his head, snapped his attention back to Aramis. “It is of no consequence. Black Water is the only home my daughter and I know.”

“My friends and I met your lovely daughter earlier today. Fine woman. Very generous and kind-hearted.”

“Thank you. I’ve raised her the best I could since her mother died.”

Aramis crossed himself. “I’m sorry to hear of your wife’s passing. Has it been long?”

Monsieur La Salle cast his eyes into his lap and Aramis worried he had opened old wounds.

 “It… It was before Black Water,” replied La Salle. “Winters were harsh in Acadia. She was a frail woman. I think she died… died during a storm…”

Aramis thought it odd La Salle did not know the exact circumstances of wife’s demise, but changed the subject as the conversation seemed to be upsetting him. “Has your daughter found a suitor since your arrival here?”

La Salle’s eyes snapped up to meet Aramis’. “Are you interested? I must admit, when you and your friends arrived, hope sprang anew that I would meet someone of your stature who would take notice of my Jeanette.” 

Aramis shifted and hid a grimace behind an awkward smile. As pleasant as Jeanette seemed, his heart belonged to someone else. “I’m afraid my life is in Paris. And alas, my duties as a Musketeer don’t leave time for much else. But I would love to hear more about where you came from in the Americas.”

“Americas?”

Aramis raised his brows. “You returned to France from Acadia, did you not? The east coast of the New World?”

La Salle canted his head. “Yes. Acadia sounds familiar.” 

When Porthos nudged Aramis’ shoulder, Aramis raised a finger at La Salle to excuse himself from their conversation.

“It’s like pulling teeth tryin’ to get anything out of these people,” whispered Porthos. “The blacksmith here keeps avoidin’ my questions about Thunderbird.”

Aramis patted his forearm. “Try and be subtle. And patient. I’m having the same issue when I bring up Acadia.”

Porthos frowned. “Yeah, subtlety and patience aren’t really my strong suit.”

“I’ve seen you charm many women before.”

“The blacksmith ain’t no woman.” 

Aramis chuckled and left Porthos to his task by turning back to La Salle. “You were telling me about Acadia?” 

“Cold,” murmured La Salle. “I remember the cold.”

 _Well, that’s succinct,_ thought Aramis. “What about the voyage back to France? Did you see any sea creatures? How was it being surrounded by nothing but water for miles to come?” 

“Yes… No… Terrifying. But then peace. I scarcely remember landing here, but when we built this village it felt like home.”

“It seems a nice place to live,” said Aramis, hiding his lie behind a friendly tone. “If not for the weather. I prefer a tad more sunshine brightening my days.” 

“Weather? Oh, you must be referring to the fog.”

Aramis’ mouth opened, poised with another question, but his grumbling stomach interfered. “Excuse me,” he said, patting his belly. “It has been awhile since my friends and I have eaten.”

La Salle reached into the middle of the table and pulled a platter with meats and buttered corn toward him. “Please. This feast is in your honour.”

Aramis’ mouth watered, but when he looked around, he saw no one had touched the food. It seemed odd, but he preferred to remain polite, so he declined the offer.   “I will wait,” he replied. “Now, where were we? Ah yes, your arrival back in France.”

“There is not much to tell. We arrived. And under the guidance of Thunderbird, we built this village and have all lived here peacefully since.”

“Thunderbird mentioned no one from Court has ever visited here?”

“That is correct. We have visitors everyday, but none from Paris proper that I’m aware of. And I suppose one cannot call them visitors anymore, for they never left. They are residents now, just like Jeanette and myself.”

The blood left Aramis’ skin. “Never? Not one has left?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

Aramis shook his head in disbelief. “But, if people arrive everyday and don’t leave, wouldn’t the village need expansion?” 

“No, we get along fine with what we’ve built. Once visitors realize what a pleasant village Black Water is, I guess they simply can’t resist making it their home.” 

“My friends and I have every intention of leaving.”

La Salle’s lips twitched into a smile. “That is what they all say.”

Aramis’ brows shot up, about to reply, when Thunderbird called his name. A seat had opened next to the village magistrate, and he was motioning for Aramis to join him.

Aramis excused himself from his conversation with La Salle and rose from his chair to join Thunderbird. When he rounded the table, he caught Jeanette’s attention when she entered the inn. She smiled, and beckoned him with her finger, so he changed direction to join her at the door.

“It is nice to see you again, Aramis. Are you enjoying the meal?”

The lighting of the inn accentuated the colourful jewellery around her neck, which contrasted harshly against her alabaster skin. Tearing his gaze from her necklace, he found Jeanette watching him closely; her dim and foggy stare conflicting with her lively demeanour. “Um, yes… no. Unfortunately, I haven’t had the pleasure yet.”

Jeanette gestured to the table where two chairs sat empty. “Please, sit with me.”

Aramis dipped his head. “I’m sorry, I seem to have been summoned by your Magistrate,” he said, glancing at Thunderbird. “I shouldn’t keep the host waiting.”

Jeanette replied with a smile. “Then I won’t keep you. But I will admit, without your company this feast will be much less enjoyable.”

Aramis couldn’t stop his gaze from sliding back down her slender throat to the necklace. The jewellery was exquisite, and its mystery forced his thoughts of Thunderbird to the back of his mind.

“Tell me more about this necklace,” he said. “I saw another quite similar to this one and I was wondering about its origin.” 

Jeanette laughed. “Don’t be foolish. This necklace is one of a kind. Made just for me.”

A shiver raised the hairs on Aramis’ neck.

“A suitor of mine was a great hunter of the Mi’kmaq’,” continued Jeanette. “He gave this to me on the day we left to return to France.”

Aramis smiled despite the hollowness in his gut, aware it no longer just craved food. “It is quite beautiful. He must be a talented artist. Can you tell me more about him?”

“I don’t seem to remember his name…” She stared intently at her fidgeting fingers. “But he had black hair. Yes. I’m sure he had black hair.”

Aramis remembered each birthmark and mole of every one of his past lovers, so how could she not even remember his name? Then he remembered her father having similar memory problems and frowned.

Jeanette bowed her head to catch his gaze. “What is wrong? Have I said something…”

Aramis looked into her pale eyes and forgot what he’d been thinking. “It’s nothing. So tell me, why did this suitor of yours not join the journey to France?”

“Only some Mi’kmaq returned with us,” replied Jeanette. “Some wanted adventure, some wished to remain with their land and families. He desired the latter. He could not bring himself to leave his home.”

“So you do remember more of him,” said Aramis.

Jeanette frowned. “Hm, I suppose I do.” She traced her fingers along the quills and beads around her neck. “I hadn’t thought of him since arriving in Black Water.”

“I apologize if I’ve brought up bad memories.”

“No, no. It’s all right.” She smiled and placed a hand on Aramis’ arm.

Startled by her icy touch, he stumbled back. “As much as I would love to stay and enjoy your company, I’m… I’m afraid I’ve kept Thunderbird waiting.”

“Nonsense,” replied a deep voice.

Aramis spun around to come face to face with Thunderbird; taking a step back when confronted with his predatory grin. With his forearm still echoing the coldness of Jeanette’s touch, he rushed to say, “I’m afraid my friend and I must…”

When his gaze flicked to his host’s dark eyes, the inn and its guests slowly retreated to the recess of Aramis’ mind.      

“Don’t be foolish,” said Thunderbird.

Aramis collided with hard wood beneath him, felt something solid at his back, and realized Thunderbird had guided him into a chair. 

“We haven’t spoken yet,” continued Thunderbird. “And I’m sure, Madame La Salle, won’t mind if I borrow you for a moment.” 

Aramis barely noticed Jeanette backing away as Thunderbird’s attention narrowed in on him.

“Now. Has something upset my guest?” asked Thunderbird. “You look… perturbed. Like someone who has seen the impossible.”

His following laughter chilled Aramis to his bones, awakening a small part of his focus. While he failed to break Thunderbird’s stare, he managed to cross his legs to hide his hand sliding to the hilt of his sword.

Thunderbird sat next to him, rested his hands on his knees, and flicked his gaze to Porthos across the table. “His strength really is exemplary, is it not?”

Aramis finally formed a coherent thought. _What the hell?_ His instincts demanded Thunderbird stop his fascination with Porthos, but although he had regained some composure, all that slipped from his lips was, “What… is it you wish to discuss?”

Thunderbird leaned back in his chair. “I see you found young Jeanette alive and well. Your friend Athos inquired about her well being after you presumably found a dead body on the shore.”

 _Yes. That sounds familiar._ “There was a body,” he mumbled. “It wore the same necklace as Jeanette.”

“How strange.”

“Indeed.”

Aramis now saw only Thunderbird’s dark eyes shimmering like stars in a night sky. Tables, chairs, walls and people; everything else in the room swirled around him like water down a drain. When Thunderbird spoke, his deep voice wrapped around Aramis’ fledgling thoughts and dragged them to the back of his mind.

“Perhaps your eyes deceived you,” said Thunderbird. “The fog tends to play with one’s imagination. Perhaps you saw nothing at all.”

“I… I could have sworn…”

Thunderbird’s eyes widened, and Aramis fell deeper into brilliance. “You just saw for yourself Jeanette is alive and well. That could not have been her body, if indeed you saw a body at all.” 

“Yes, yes, of course,” murmured Aramis.

“Now please, enjoy the rest of the feast.”

Imprisoned by Thunderbird’s allure, Aramis failed to stop him from leaving. His gaze fell to the table where he stared at the untouched food spread out before him, their once enticing smells now turning his stomach.

Porthos dropped into the chair beside him, a half empty wine glass in hand. “What’d he say?”

“I just felt the most…”

Porthos nudged his shoulder. “You look white as a sheet. What happened?”

“It’s not Jeanette’s body? It’s not her… it is not hers…”

“Aramis. Aramis! Snap out of it. What’s up with you?” 

Muttered noise fell from Aramis’ lips until Porthos shook him gently. “I don’t know,” Aramis said, running tired fingers through his hair. “I feel… I’m not sure.” 

“Well, something’s up.” Porthos passed him his glass of wine. “Here, you look like you need a drink.”

Aramis swallowed several gulps, then placed the empty glass on the table where his hand lingered on the stem. When the alcohol slowly untangled the cobwebs in his mind, his fingers tightened around the stem with almost enough pressure to snap it in two. “Porthos. What just happened?”

“You tell me.”

Aramis’ eyes moved around the room as if seeing it for the first time. He remembered entering the inn, talking with Porthos, Jeanette and Thunderbird… He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off the ache behind his eyes.

“Porthos,” he muttered.

Porthos straightened, banged a fist on the table and stood. “What’d he do? I’ll kill him.”

“I’m not sure.” Aramis pulled Porthos back into his seat. “Thunderbird just told me it was not Jeanette’s body we found at the sea.”

“Yeah, we knew that.”

“But I…” Aramis refused to extinguish the confidence shinning in his friend’s eyes, and decided not to share his experience. Instead, he changed the topic. “Tell me, what did the blacksmith say?”

“He came here a few weeks ago after the Cardinal died.”

Aramis’ eyes went wide. “And you didn’t find that strange?”

“Why would I?”

“Because the Cardinal died almost a year ago.”

Porthos shook his head. “Naw. Must ‘ave been a mistake, then. The blacksmith must ‘ave meant months ago.”

Aramis sat forward. “What else did he say? Where did he come from? Why did he stay?”

Porthos held up a hand. “Whoa, slow down. That’s too many questions at once.”

“This is important, Porthos. Why did he stay?”

“He said…” Porthos firmed his lips, furrowed his brow. “He said he liked the fog. Yeah, I remember him sayin’ he got lost in the fog just like us, cause I was thinkin’ at least we’re not the only fools.”

“And…”

“Give me a second.” Porthos picked up a pheasant leg from a serving plate on the table and ripped a bite off the bone. “He took a room and never left. Wait…”

Aramis scooted closer. “What?”

Porthos swung the pheasant leg as he spoke, flinging meat and juices onto the table. “Yeah, yeah. The blacksmith felt _comforted_ by the fog.” Porthos frowned at Aramis. “That’s weird, isn’t it? And then he said something about barely rememberin’ his life before Black Water. He couldn’t even tell me where he came from.”

“And you didn’t find that odd?”

Porthos scowled. “Course I did. But when I pressed him further, he up and left, and I was too hungry to care.”

Aramis ran a hand down his face, his heart fluttering when Thunderbird’s weathered face appeared in the window by the door. Illuminated by the inn’s amber light, and silhouetted by the black night outside, he appeared like a demon staring through the veil. 

Aramis blinked, rubbed his eyes, and tried to erase the image of Thunderbird dragging his hand down the glass; his long fingers leaving behind smudged imprints.

When blinking didn’t help, Aramis shook his head, and Thunderbird finally disappeared.

He grabbed Porthos by the shoulder. “We must find the others.”

Aramis dragged his friend to the door where they stumbled into Athos and d’Artagnan.

“We have something to show you,” Athos said immediately.

“And we have something to tell you,” replied Aramis. “I can speak as we walk. Right now I’d like to put a little distance between us and this inn, so lead the way.”

After gathering more torches, Aramis followed his friends through the village, listening to Athos describe the body they’d found. Aramis told them the history of the necklace, but at the risk of sounding like a madman, he omitted telling them about Thunderbird in the window, and what he’d experienced while talking with him.

When they entered the forest, the torchlight played with the fog, transforming tree trunks into monsters; their long twisted branches above, stretching out with crooked fingers to snatch passing prey. Dried leaves crunched underfoot, creating the sound of an army marching when there were only four. None of it played kind to Aramis. His ominous surroundings teased him, toyed with his bravado, making it hard to forget the portentous feelings still lingering inside him from the feast. 

To help himself focus, he thought of the hustle and bustle of Paris’ city streets, the cheering and drinking of ale at the local pubs. He thought of Anne; the way her curls fell onto her shoulders, and the way her pink lips puckered right before she smiled.

By the time they arrived at the beach, Aramis had forced enough of his otherworldly thoughts aside so he could concentrate on the current problem. “Where is the body?” he asked, swinging his torch in a slow arc.

Athos waved his hand, trying to disperse the fog hovering around them. “Doesn’t this ever let up?” he mumbled.

“Not according to the blacksmith,” replied Porthos. “It’s here everyday.”

“Trapping lost travellers in Black Water as it seems,” added Aramis.

D’Artagnan cast the light of his torch over a cadaver. “Here it is.”

Waves lapped at the corpse, tugging it toward the open water like a thief trying to snatch it away. Aramis signed the cross then pulled the body further onto shore to study the remnants of its ragged clothes. “Porthos,” he said with a sigh. “Do you see what I see?”

Porthos groaned. “Yes. I don’t believe it, but yes.”

“What?” asked Athos.

Aramis ran his fingers over the beadwork of the victim’s vest. “This is the innkeeper.”

“Who was sittin’ across from us only an hour ago,” added Porthos.


	4. Chapter 4

Black Water Rises

Chapter Four

 Athos hooked his arms under the dead man’s shoulders. “I’m not losing another one. We’re taking him with us so we can keep an eye on him.”

D’Artagnan gathered the legs into his arms, muttering under his breath. “And hope he doesn’t fall apart.”

They walked back to the village with the added burden of carrying a dead body slowing their journey. Even with Aramis leading the way with two torches, their glow barely reached the ground, leaving the terrain shrouded in darkness, and them stumbling every few feet.

Athos hefted the body against his chest to reaffirm his grip, then peered back at Porthos bringing up the rear of their procession. “You’re quiet. And remarkably calm.”

Porthos shook his head, raised a hand.   “I’m tryin’ to keep a steady head ‘bout this. So just leave me be.”

For the rest of the hike they walked in silence, save for a few grunts and muttered curses. Athos peered over his shoulder every few feet to assess Porthos’ disposition; several times catching him shaking his head and mumbling under his breath. But for the most part, Porthos remained focused on the path before him.

This contented Athos, for he needed quiet time to think things through. Another body complicated things. _But at least this one hasn’t disappeared_ , he thought.  

When they reached the village, they turned left toward the inn, where Athos and d’Artagnan lowered the cadaver to the porch next to the door.

Athos wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “For lack of a better place to put him. Here will suffice. Now let us hope the real innkeeper can shed some light on this… situation.”

Athos expected to find the innkeeper behind the bar, and when he did, his head canted sideways with a smile he couldn’t control. “Well, he seems to be alive and well.”

“True,” said d’Artagnan. “But why is the rotting corpse outside wearing the same vest?”

Porthos huffed a breath, threw his arms in the air. “Great. This day just keeps gettin’ worse.”

“Maybe the innkeeper has a brother?” suggested d’Artagnan.

Aramis stepped up beside him, lips curled into a smirk. “Like Jeanette had a sister?”

“Let’s just get on with this,” replied Athos. He stepped toward the counter, wherein Aramis grabbed his elbow. Athos turned to him. “What is it?”

“When Porthos and I left this inn earlier, that table was covered in food and the innkeeper was sitting here with us.”

Not a napkin nor plate remained on the table, nor did the air smell of lingering food. The innkeeper stood behind the counter sorting papers, ignoring their presence. Athos didn’t know how the innkeeper eliminated every trace of the feast so quickly, but kept that thought to himself.   Aramis was fidgety enough. “It has been at least an hour since you were here,” he said instead. “That is plenty of time to clean up.”

“Perhaps,” replied Aramis. He turned around and walked slowly to the window beside the door where he traced a finger down the pane.

“What is it now?” asked Athos.

Aramis spun back to him, shook his head. “Nothing to concern yourself with. Please proceed.”  

Aramis returned to Athos’ side; his shoulders twitching under his blue cloak and jaw tense. _Definitely not nothing,_ Athos thought with a frown, but marched toward the counter none-the-less. He would deal with Aramis later; first they had to deal with the corpse outside. “Do you know who we are?” he asked the innkeeper.

The innkeeper flashed a brief smile. “You are Musketeers.” 

“Indeed,” said Athos. “So knowing that, I presume you would be kind enough to provide a room in which to store a dead body?”

“Sir?” The innkeeper gulped. “A dead body?” 

In no mood to dawdle, Athos stepped back from the counter and peered down a hallway leading away from the main room. “Somewhere on this floor would be nice. I’m not inclined to carry it any further than necessary, particularly in its decomposed state.”

“Ex… excuse me? The cadaver’s decomposed… state?”

Porthos leaned on the counter, cracked his knuckles and smiled. “The room?”

“Uh, yes, right away.” The innkeeper scurried out from behind the counter and down the hall.

“And a blanket would be much appreciated!” d’Artagnan called after him. He looked at Athos and shrugged. “We don’t need to upset the innkeeper until we have to.”

Athos agreed. Aramis could believe ghosts were walking the earth in Black Water all he wanted, but till a reasonable explanation for the dead bodies could be found, Athos preferred to keep the situation secret.

The innkeeper returned carrying a dusty canvas and handed it to d’Artagnan. “It is not a room, per say, but the storage closet in the back where we keep the hay should suffice, should it not?”

“It will do,” said Athos. He motioned for his men to follow him outside. If the closet had no windows, he would place a sentry at the door and be content. The last situation he wanted was another missing dead body.

They laid the cadaver on the floor of the closet and covered it with the canvas. Athos fetched a chair from the dining room and put it up against the closed door before sitting down. “I will take first watch.”

Aramis walked up and stood in front of him, hands braced on his hips. Athos knew there was something his friend wanted to say, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it, so he looked to Porthos. He stood with his thumbs hooked into his belt, eyes drawn and most likely ready to fall into bed and forget this entire day.

D’Artagnan presented his open palm, and Athos pulled a room key from his pocket. “Go. I’ll be fine,” he said, passing him the key.

Porthos and d’Artagnan turned to move down the hallway, but stopped in their tracks when Aramis cleared his throat. “We should have let the innkeeper see the body,” he stated.

Athos rolled his eyes. _Here we go…_ “Why is that?”

Aramis crossed his arms over his chest. “There is something _wrong_ in this town, and having the innkeeper see that body would take us one step closer to the truth. These people need to be aware that something strange is going on.”

Aramis’ harsh tone sparked frustration in Athos. Black Water certainly reeked of foul play, and Athos knew Thunderbird would be found responsible for most of it. But Aramis’ ascertations were ridiculous without proof, stressing Athos’ patience to its limits.

Granted, two dead bodies wearing the clothes of two living souls _did_ create a level of uncertainty Athos was finding harder and harder to curtail. But it wasn’t time to panic yet. He tipped his chair back and pulled his hat over his eyes. “We will deal with it in the morning.”    

Aramis huffed. “This should be dealt with now.”

Athos peered at him from under the brim of his hat. “Go to sleep. That is an order. I will watch the door until I wake d’Artagnan for the next shift. Until it is your duty to sit here, I want you resting. Now go.”

Porthos pulled Aramis backward down the hall. “I’ll make sure he does as he’s told,” he called over his shoulder.

Athos shifted in his chair, crossed his ankles and looked at d’Artagnan still standing in front of him. “And what do you wish to say?”

“There might be a very good reason these bodies are washing up on shore. If the _Black Water_ crashed just below this village, some of the passengers may have gone overboard and drowned before touching land. Maybe those are the bodies washing up now?”

Athos frowned. “Saying that earlier would have been helpful. But although this is possible, it still doesn’t explain the similarities with the clothes and necklace. Now go to bed. I’ll wake you in a few hours. We’ll deal with it all tomorrow when we’re not so tired and likely to lapse into poor judgement.”

D’Artagnan left, and Athos crossed his hands in his lap. After a moment’s contemplation, and a quick excursion to the main room, Athos was sitting back in his seat with a bottle of wind he’d retrieved from the innkeeper.

_~M~_

Aramis lay on his bed. The amber glow from the village lanterns cast malingering shadows in the room. The haunting ballet the flickering lights played on the walls and ceiling mesmerized him. The flames twisted and morphed the dancing silhouettes into quivering demons with claws. But the light failed to reach the corners, leaving them shrouded in darkness; a perfect hiding place for waiting nightmares.

He wouldn’t look at them. His mind was already afflicted with enough worries to keep him awake.

Porthos’ soft snores drifted across the dimly lit room. Aramis envied his ability to rest so soundly. Frustrated, he burrowed his head deeper into his pillow, willing his mind to relax.  

Their earlier conversation with Thunderbird in his cabin popped into his head. Images of Indians and sea storms ran through his mind, sending it into a tailspin.

Years of training and experience told him the best defense against any enemy was to be prepared for the worst. So Aramis sat up, and trying to keep the creaking to a minimum, he slowly lowered his bare feet to the floor.

He reached for his pants hanging on the bedpost, slipped them on and gathered his boots. Dressed, he stood and leaned into the middle of the room, listening for movement from Porthos’ bed.   

Porthos grunted, but when no other signs of waking presented themselves, Aramis crept toward the door between their beds, eager to get answers from the innkeeper and hopefully ease his obsessing mind. There was no need to bother Porthos further with his assumptions until he had proof.

Creaking bed slats stopped Aramis at the door. “Where are you going?” Porthos called, into the semi-darkness.

Aramis slumped his shoulders, turned back to his bed. “Would you believe I was going to relieve Athos?”

“No. Go to sleep.”

Aramis pulled off his boots, letting them fall to the floor with a thud, before climbing back into bed to resume his vigil with the ceiling.

Once again, his mind conjured black skies, churning seas, and ethereal creatures with long claws and beaks terrorizing the lands. His stomach grumbled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten. He rolled onto his side, stretched his legs and stared across the room where Porthos slept on his back snoring quietly again.

_Could it be Jeanette’s body? Does the innkeeper have a brother who shares the same wardrobe?_

He saw Thunderbird’s face in the window, fingers like talons scratching down the pane.

He grunted, threw himself onto his back and closed his eyes, regretting that sleep would not come if his mind did not release these questions. 

 _Why is there so much fog? Why won’t anyone leave?_  

But the real question keeping him awake was, who, or _what_ , returned to France on the _Black Water_ along with the settlers from Acadia?

Surely something did.

 _Or no_.

Perhaps Athos and d’Artagnan were right? They’d presented persuasive arguments against ominous wrongdoings in Black Water, which Aramis wished to believe, because what _he_ believed was considered more ridiculous than rational. But what was he to do? Keep his mouth shut, watch and wait, or share his intuitions and possibly be deemed a madman? It seemed an easy choice; warn his brothers and perchance save them all, but of course, no one would heed the ramblings of a lunatic.

He gazed at the ceiling again, falling deeper into conflicting thoughts until sleep finally claimed him. When he woke, his muscles were stiff and aching. Groaning, he pushed up to sitting.

From the darkness came the sounds of snarling and gnashing teeth.

Aramis whipped his head around, searching for Porthos. A dark, obscured figure hovered at his friend’s bedside; its height and bulk surpassing even Porthos. Aramis ran a hand down his face, rubbed his eyes, and the form morphed into an oddly shaped man with wing-like arms.

“Porthos?”

The shadow moved like smoke. Smooth and sinewy, it lowered itself over Porthos.  

“Porthos!”

Aramis lunged off his bed onto the intruder’s back.

The shape rose to full height, emitting a wet-sounding hiss that filled the room. It swung out a massive arm, tossing Aramis back across the room onto his bed. He scrambled to his feet with one thought in mind…

_Get to Porthos._

Aramis knew he stood little chance fighting this monstrosity with simple brute strength, but his pistol was unloaded and he couldn’t reach his sword hanging on the bedpost. _To hell with it!_ Aramis grabbed his pistol from the nightstand and charged forward with the butt end raised.

The creature swung back at him, exploding Aramis’ mid-section into what felt like a million shards of glass. He hit the ground next to his bed. The pistol fell from his hand and skittered into a dark corner of the room. Air rushed in and out of his lungs. Stabbing pain under his ribs temporarily paralyzed him.

 Two eyes, as red as a courtesan’s freshly painted lips, stared at him from the middle of the room.

“Holy mother of…”

The figure crept forward, hissing and snarling. Aramis scrambled for his sword, and unsheathed the weapon in time to see the figure step into the dim torchlight casting through the window above his bed.

“Thunderbird,” breathed Aramis.

The town’s magistrate threw his head back, revealing rows of teeth, jagged like the edge of serrated blades.

Roaring thunder echoed in the room. Thunderbird descended on him with arms outstretched. Aramis’ heart beat in his throat. Panicked, he thrust his blade forward, piercing Thunderbird’s thighs and dropping him to the floor.

Aramis pushed to his knees, panting and hungry for blood. But his first concern was Porthos. He stumbled over Thunderbird’s fallen body and collapsed at his friend’s bedside.

“Porthos! Wake up!” 

Aramis grasped Porthos’ shoulders, slapped his cheek. His friend squirmed and moaned, batting his hand away until he opened his eyes.

“Get up!” yelled Aramis. “We must get moving.”

He pulled Porthos to sitting, took a hurried glance back at Thunderbird. Cold sweat beaded Aramis’ brow, dripping into his eyes and blurring his vision. Creaking floorboards and a low, rumbling chuckle indicated Thunderbird had risen.

Aramis released his friend and turned to face his enemy. He raised his sword, heaved in breath after breath, anticipating the attack.

Thunderbird inched forward, dragging his feet across the plank floor. His arms, slowly rising out to his sides, ended with pointed claws that looked like they could shred a body to pulp in minutes.

“What’s… what’s going on?” asked Porthos.

Aramis glanced over his shoulder and saw Porthos struggling to his feet. He didn’t have time to explain. He shoved Thunderbird back, away from Porthos, then dashed forward and ducked beneath his adversary’s swinging arms. Aramis dropped to one knee behind Thunderbird’s falling form; his sword pointing upward behind him.

The tip of his rapier pierced the back of Thunderbird’s shoulder blade. An ear-piercing screech nearly shattered Aramis’ eardrums as Thunderbird’s body slid down the rapier’s length to the floor.

Aramis left his sword embedded and ran to Porthos. “Are you alright? Did he hurt you?”

Porthos shook his head, blinked his eyes. “Nah, nah. I’m good. What’s going…” Porthos’ eye’s widened. “Who is…”

Aramis spun around. Thunderbird was pushing slow and steady onto his hands, and staring back with bloodshot eyes.

“Oh come on.” Aramis moved to stand between Porthos and Thunderbird, hell-bent to protect his friend. “Stay behind me.”

“No,” growled Porthos. “I’ve got this now.”

Porthos shouldered past Aramis, knocking him against the door between their beds. Aramis sunk to the floor, his breath exploding from already bruised lungs when his chest collided with the ground.

He heard Porthos growl. Then Thunderbird.

Next, the table across the room smashed into pieces, and Porthos lay among them, silent.

Thunderbird turned to Aramis baring his teeth. Saliva dribbled down his chin, pooled at his feet in a gelatinous mess.

Aramis dragged his body up the door high enough to sit, nails digging and scratching into the wood and splintering. “What are you?” He coughed blood and wiped it away with the back of his hand. “What do you want?”

Thunderbird pulled the blood soaked sword, sucking and slurping from his shoulder. “You interfered.” A low husky laugh emanated from deep within his chest as he dropped the sword and grinned. “You will learn respect. And I will have my feast!”

Thunderbird lunged at Aramis with sharp talons curled to grab, and jagged teeth ready to tear skin from bone.

Aramis raised his arms in defense. Before his world turned black, Athos and d’Artagnan appeared over Thunderbird’s shoulder.


	5. Chapter 5

Black Water Rises

Chapter Five

 After fighting his way through the remnants of a fitful sleep, Aramis slowly cracked open his eyes to see a man-sized shadow looming above him. Claws, fangs and piercing red eyes flashed through his mind with lightning speed, and his hand flew to his hip where he carried his pistol. But he found only the waistband of his braies.

“Calm down, Aramis.”

 _A familiar voice_.

He blinked to clear his vision, rubbed his eyes, and the shadow grew arms and legs. A moment later, a face framed by dark hair came into focus. “D’Artagnan. Thank god it’s you.”

“It’s me. How are you feeling? You’re awfully pale.”

Aramis swallowed, drew in a deep breath that bruised ribs angrily protested. “What happened?” 

“You tell me.”

Dim light from a sun obscured by fog filtered through the window above Aramis’ bed. Everything in the room appeared grey, yet peaceful. Aramis set his jaw, braced his midsection and sat upright, pulling the blanket with him to drape his shoulders. “Was it a dream?”

“If you’re asking if Thunderbird attacked you last night, the answer is yes. Yes he did.”

Aramis’ hands curled into fists around the soft fabric of the blanket. _Not a dream? But Porthos…_

He threw his legs over the bed. “How is Porthos? I must see him.”

D’Artagnan held him down. “He’s sleeping. Which is what you should be doing. You’re ribs are bruised, and you’ve been coughing all night.”

Aramis peered around d’Artagnan to where Porthos slept across the room. He watched the rise and fall of his friend’s bare chest, content that his breathing seemed smooth and effortless. His gaze then shifted to the bandage covering Porthos’ right shoulder, held in place by a scarf tied around his mid-section. “Tell me. Is he alright?”

“Athos and I got to him in time.” D’Artagnan sat on the edge of the bed, looked at the broken table where Thunderbird had thrown Porthos. “All things considered, he’s quite lucky. Only some scrapes and bruises, and a decent sized bump on his head. Probably why he’s still sleeping.” He paused, and looked at Aramis with a raised eyebrow. “But there’s these strange puncture wounds on his shoulders. They’re not deep, but we don’t know how he got them.”

Snarling and gnashing teeth grated in Aramis’ mind, raising the hair on the back of his neck.   “Where is Thunderbird now?”

“Athos and I apprehended him last night. He’s locked up in the cold cellar beneath the inn. Athos is with him now.”

Aramis’ eyes widened. “You have him?”

“Yes.”

Aramis threw the blanket off his shoulders. “I must see him.”

“It’s alright, Aramis. Everything is under control. When Athos and I pulled him off you, he came willingly. I guess with being caught red-handed, he didn’t have much of a choice.”

Aramis pushed to his feet. Pain spiked in his chest, and he remembered Thunderbird’s strong arm smashing into his body. He reached for the bedside table for support as he slid an arm around his torso. “Willingly? I don’t believe that.”

D’Artagnan stood next to him with hands hovering as if waiting to catch something. _Or someone_ , mused Aramis. It probably wasn’t a bad idea. He felt tremendously tired.

“He did come willingly,” replied d’Artagnan. “Though, I’m wondering… What exactly happened last night? How did he take you both by surprise? I know you and Porthos are a force to be reckoned with, and he was only one man.”

Aramis shook his head. “You don’t understand.”

“Then explain, Aramis.” D’Artagnan crossed his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow. “I’m a quick learner.”

Aramis wanted to tell d’Artagnan, tell everyone, how cold Jeanette’s touch had been on his arm, and how no one ate, and how everyone seemed to have memory problems… how everything in this village seemed off in some macabre way.

But no one else seemed to be noticing any of this. Or at least, no one had said anything to him.

“Aramis. Aramis?”

 _D’Artagnan is a good man,_ he thought. _Has a good head on his shoulder._ But could he handle the truth? And what was the truth? Aramis wasn’t convinced that what he remembered seeing last night wasn’t just a trick of the shadows or his overactive mind. Sure, the attack was real, but was everything else he saw real?  

As tempting as it was to unburden himself, Aramis decided that he needed absolute certainty before taking that step with anyone. The thought of his friends thinking him insane was almost a worse fate than death itself.

“Are you listening to me?”

D’Artagnan was frowning at him. Aramis decided his friend’s curiosity would have to wait. He needed answers before divulging any of his secrets and suspicions. “I must speak with Thunderbird first,” he replied.

Despite the metaphorical knife stabbing into his side, and the exhaustion urging him to sit, Aramis started toward the door. With his first footfall, vertigo caught hold of him and pitched him forward.

D’Artagnan grasped his elbow. “Take it easy.”

“I’m fine.”

After a moment, Aramis gently pushed off d’Artagnan’s hands and padded across the room to look down on Porthos. He wanted to see, one more time, that his friend was fairing alright before heading down to the cold cellar.

Porthos’ eyes were closed, his breathing soft and regular, and his mouth twitched every once in a while like someone deep within a dream. The bandage on his shoulder looked clean and dry, satisfying Aramis that it was not infected.

Unfortunately, the sight of the wound conjured images of long teeth hanging between wet crimson lips. Aramis shoved the thought aside with a shake of his head. “Not until I have proof.” He turned to d’Artagnan. “Will you stay with him?”

“Of course.”

With d’Artagnan’s help, Aramis pulled his long doublet over his shoulders and gathered his weapons before leaving the room.

He found Thunderbird tied to a chair in the cold cellar with Athos pacing behind him. Aramis rushed forward and grabbed Thunderbird by the collars of his shirt. “What did you do to Porthos?”

Athos pulled him back. “I am handling this. And you should be resting.”

 _I will bloody well tear his limbs from his joints!_ “I’ve rested enough!” Aramis lunged again at Thunderbird. “What did you do? Who are you?”

Thunderbird smiled. “I’m Thunderbird. You are Aramis, and the one so graciously interrogating me…” He licked a trickle of blood off his lips. “Is Athos of the King’s Musketeers.”

Colourful bruising marred Thunderbird’s face. Athos had not been kind. It made Aramis smile, but it didn’t answer any of his questions. “Why did you attack us?”

Athos put a hand on Aramis’ chest. “Please, allow me.”

Athos hauled his arm back and swung it forward, knocking Thunderbird’s head back. “Now, let’s try this again,” he said, shaking out his hand. “Why did you attack my friends?”

Thunderbird lifted his chin, but didn’t reply.

“You tried to kill Porthos and me! You probably killed the others!” shouted Aramis.

“What others?” asked Thunderbird, winking at Athos. “You mean, Madame La Salle?”

“And the innkeeper,” stated Aramis. “We found his body rotting on the shoreline!” _And I know you killed him, you son-of-a-bitch!_

Thunderbird smiled as his eyes flicked toward the ceiling. “If I’m not mistaken, the innkeeper is upstairs.”

Aramis squeezed his hands into fists, imagined ripping out Thunderbird’s throat. _Not now_ , he told himself. _Not until I have the answers I seek_. Just thinking about what he could do the monster managed to satisfy his anger and control his violent urges. “I saw you attack Porthos. Then you came at me. Athos and d’Artagnan caught you red-handed. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“You will find the truth you seek soon enough,” replied Thunderbird. “But be careful it doesn’t come back to haunt you.”

Athos rolled his eyes. “What ever happened to simple, straight forward answers?”

“There is nothing straight forward about any of this!” shouted Aramis. “I saw him as some sort of monster last night. He wasn’t a man.” _And there it is_ , thought Aramis. _The truth_.

“And you saw Madame La Salle dead, as well as the innkeeper,” stated Thunderbird.   “Yet they appear to be alive and well.”

“Porthos will confirm my story,” replied Aramis. “He saw what you’d become last night.”

Athos pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Porthos is lucky to be alive. As are you.   And I know Thunderbird attacked you and Porthos last night. I just don’t know why, and I don’t know why he killed those other two people.”

Although Aramis had some pretty nasty ideas on how to handle Thunderbird floating in his head, he asked, “So what are we going to do with him?”

“We take him back to Paris under our custody. If not for any other reason but for attacking two Musketeers. That alone is punishable by death.”

The air in the small room cracked with Thunderbird’s laugh. “I’m not going anywhere until I say so.”

With passion to draw blood, Aramis grabbed Thunderbird by his shirt lapels. “You may want to think on that some more! You _are_ most certainly coming back to Paris with us!”

Thunderbird sighed. “There is no more Paris. At least, not for any of you.”

Athos’ hand slid to the hilt of his sword. “Are you threatening us? Again?”

“It is not a threat. It is truth I speak.” Thunderbird rested a cold stare on Aramis. “Your fate was sealed the moment you touched my totem.”

 _What are you on about_ , thought Aramis. “What totem?”

“That painted pole at the edge of Black Water,” replied Thunderbird. “My totem. My deliverance.”

Aramis stepped back, hands trembling, breath stuttering. His vision from the other day, vividly playing out in his mind. _I’m not mad. This is real._ “That’s when everything started… This is my fault…”

Athos placed his hands on his shoulders. “What are you saying? How is this your fault?”

Aramis shook his head, pushed Athos’ hands off him. “You don’t understand.” His eyes were wide as he stared at Athos. “I brought the devil to Black Water.”

Thunderbird laughed. “Foolish man, I am not the devil. But perhaps you should learn not to touch things that are not yours.”

The walls closed in on Aramis. Desire to leave this room leached into every fibre of his being, turning his legs into logs of unmovable wood. He was grateful when Athos ushered him out of the cellar.

“Go. Rest. I will deal with this,” said Athos. “And Aramis? Remove that nonsense from your mind. This is not your fault.”

Aramis stood in the hallway, chest heaving, mind racing. He loathed leaving Athos alone with that monster, but he needed to speak with Porthos. Porthos would collaborate his story. He had to have seen what Thunderbird had become, and could help convince his friends something more than a simple murderer dwelled in Black Water.

And yet, he couldn’t leave Athos behind.

He dragged Athos close, held him by the shoulders. “You must listen to me. At the risk of sounding like a lunatic, I must speak my mind.” He looked directly into Athos’ eyes. “Thunderbird is not what he seems. He’s not born of this earth. And I have done something terrible by touching that pole. I’ve brought damnation here.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Please, come with me now and I’ll explain.”

Athos blinked once, twice, then closed the door and locked it. “I will let you say your piece.”

 _That won’t be enough_ , thought Aramis. He pulled his knife from his belt and carved a large crucifix into the door, then took his rosary beads from his pocket and hung them on the door handle. Stepping back, he crossed himself and prayed _that_ would be enough.  

They climbed the stairs together, Aramis’ legs getting weaker with each step higher. He couldn’t believe how nervous he was at telling his friends the truth about his vision and everything that had happened to him since arriving here. It was physically exhausting him and making him feel ill.

When they reached the inn’s main floor, Aramis’ stomach was aching, his hands were trembling, and he felt ready to pass out. So when the front door swung open and a man entered, his heart skipped a beat. 

“Excuse me… What town is this?” asked the man.

 _Just what we need_ , Aramis thought. _Another_ _visitor for Thunderbird to prey on_. “Black Water,” he replied.

With an arm braced around his torso, Aramis sauntered toward him. His muscles worked like he’d just climbed a mountain, weak and tingly.   Pain pierced his chest with each footfall. But his mind was clear and awake; knowing in fact, this newcomer was now doomed to remain in Black Water.

The man threw his bags on the ground. “Never heard of it.” He pointed out the door and shook his head. “I got lost in this murky mess.”

“I’d get back on that horse and leave if I were you,” Athos said.

The newcomer scowled. “I’ve tried three times already. And I’d be damned if I can’t find my way out of this fog.”

Aramis bowed his head. _Of course you couldn’t find your way out of here_ , he thought, as he rubbed his forehead.   _Thunderbird needs to trap his victims somehow_. He sighed and looked back at the man, knowing that unfortunately, he was stuck here like the rest.

If Aramis couldn’t save him from being trapped, at least he could try to protect him by having him stay close by. “This way, Monsieur,” he said, pointing at the innkeeper.

_~M~_

 The room was quiet when Aramis and Athos entered. D’Artagnan sat at the foot of Porthos’ bed, watching his friend sleep. Aramis nodded to him as he went to his own bed, feeling as though he’d just finished a sparring match with the entire King’s Regiment. He laid down, grateful for the respite, but heightened nerves and trepidation churned his stomach making his head spin.

“So what is it you wish to say?” asked Athos.

Aramis sighed and ran a hand down his face. “We need to fear Thunderbird.”

“There is no further danger,” said Athos. “Thunderbird is secure. And we will bring him with us on our return to Paris.”

Aramis shook his head. “You don’t understand.” He thought his voice might fail if he continued to speak. He wasn’t even sure where to start. He closed his eyes and remembered John 8:32; _the truth shall set you free_.

Aramis expelled a quick breath. “I had a vision.”

D’Artagnan frowned. “ A vision? Like Emilie of Duras?”

“Yes… no.” Aramis shook his head. “Soup wasn’t involved.”

Athos crossed his arms. “But this vision, do you believe it came from god?”

“I don’t know,” replied Aramis. “It happened when I touched Thunderbird’s totem.” 

D’Artagnan raised an eyebrow. “Thunderbird’s totem?”

Athos explained how according to Thunderbird, all their fates had been sealed the moment Aramis had touched the pole at Black Water’s entrance.

“What exactly did you see?” asked d’Artagnan.

“There was thunder and lightening. I saw death… a large bird… swooping down to grab me. Two red eyes that glowed like the fires of hell and a forest covered in blood.”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes. “Oh, that’s it?   Just some silly images of death and blood?” He leaned forward with a scowl. “Why didn’t you tell us this!”

“And what does it have to do with Thunderbird?” asked Athos.

“It was what I saw last night,” affirmed Aramis. “Thunderbird… he… he had those eyes. Teeth, as jagged as serrated blades filled his mouth. When I first woke this morning, part of me thought it all a dream. It couldn’t be true. My eyes must have deceived me. Then Thunderbird said those words…” His voice trailed off as Thunderbird’s voice echoed in his brain.

_‘Your fate was sealed the moment you touched my totem.’_

“We are dealing with something of the supernatural,” he continued. “This village hidden in fog. Corpses resembling the living. People not remembering anything before Black Water. And Thunderbird himself. They’re all signs of something sinister happening here. We are trapped in a version of hell where Thunderbird reigns.”

Athos paced the area between the two beds, his arms crossed over his chest. “I believe you had a vision. And I believe, _you believe_ what you saw last night. I’ll even admit to being suspicious about this town. There is something… strange going on here. But demons, Aramis? You can’t be serious.”

“Porthos was there,” said Aramis. “He will collaborate my story.”

He looked past d’Artagnan and Athos to see Porthos asleep under a heavy blanket. He’d barely moved since Aramis last saw him, which lit a spark in his gut. He got up, and although dizzy, he went to his friend and looked down on him.

“Porthos,” he called.

“Aramis, don’t wake him,” said Athos.

Aramis looked over his shoulder at Athos and frowned. “Why is he still sleeping? His injuries are not severe.” He removed the blanket covering his friend’s shoulders and torso. Bruises dotted his chest and the bandage remained clean, so Aramis gave him a little shove. “Porthos, wake up.”

D’Artagnan went to stand next to Aramis. “What are you doing?”

“Porthos was attacked last night, as was I. He should be up grumbling for retribution, not sleeping soundly in bed.”

Athos joined Aramis and d’Artagnan at the bed. “You’re right. It has been too long.”

Aramis shoved his friend harder, his concern increasing with each moment Porthos did not wake.

Black spots encroached on Aramis’ vision, fatigue weighed him down. He stumbled back, legs quaking, only to fall onto his bed in a heap.   The room, his friends, everything spun around him. His arms and legs melted into the mattress, his already meagre strength diminishing more by the second.

A slap on his cheek startled his mind awake, but his body continued to sink deeper and deeper into the bed. “What is… happening?”

D’Artagnan and Athos stood beside him. “What the hell is going on?” demanded Athos.

Aramis fought to keep his eyes open, he needed to stay awake. “I don’t know. I… I have no strength.”

D’Artagnan looked from one bed to the other. “The same thing must be happening to them both.”

Athos knelt next to the bed, brushed a strand of hair off Aramis’ face. “Talk to us.”

D’Artagnan dropped to his knees beside Athos and undid Aramis’ doublet with frantic hands. He lifted his shirt and re-examined his friend’s wounds. Nothing but bruises marred his torso. “What the hell did we miss?”

His hands searched Aramis’ head and neck, and when his fingers brushed across tender skin, Aramis grimaced.

“What is that?” moaned Aramis. He worked his throat, trying to fight off the sleep pulling him under. “What’s back there?”

D’Artagnan sat back, eyes wide.   “We missed these. There’s four puncture wounds on the back of your neck.”

Athos pressed around the swollen skin. “What caused this?”

The pressure of his friend’s fingers shot pain up Aramis’ neck. “Porthos has the same?” he asked.

“He does,” replied d’Artagnan. “But why didn’t you tell us you had these?”

Aramis’ scattered memories of the previous night were slipping away as fast as he was falling asleep. All he caught were flashes of fangs and claws and beady red eyes. And that he’d woken to Thunderbird hovering over Porthos. But how long had he been the room? “I didn’t… know.”

His eyelids slid closed.   “You must wake Porthos. Ask him… Ask him what he saw last night… He will convince you.”


	6. Chapter 6

Black Water Rises

Chapter Six

The dim afternoon light cast a shadow on Aramis’ pale face, adding dark circles under his eyes. Frustrated and confused, Athos felt only minor guilt shaking him awake. When it had no effect, he tried again, called his name, then stood abruptly to face d’Artagnan. “What’s happening? Why are they both asleep?”

“I don’t know,” replied d’Artagnan from Porthos’ bedside. “Porthos, wake up. Wake up." 

As if finally hearing their pleas, Porthos opened his eyes. His gaze darted around the room until it rested on d’Artagnan’s face. He pushed himself up against the backboard. “My god I’m tired.”

Crossing the room to Porthos’ bedside, Athos looked down on him with a sigh of relief. “What do you remember from last night?”

Porthos growled. “I remember gettin’ tossed across the room. And Aramis tryin’ to fight off…” He bolted upright. “Where is he? Is he alright?”

D’Artagnan put a hand on Porthos’ shoulder. “He is… sleeping. Do you remember what you saw? Who attacked you?” 

“I saw…” Porthos slumped back against the backboard. “Naw, I must ‘ave been too tired to see clearly.”

“See what?” asked Athos.

Porthos waved his hand. “Thunderbird. He was here, but he had…” His eyes widened, his facial muscles went slack.

“Go on,” encouraged Athos. “What did you see?”

“It was dark,” replied Porthos. “My eyes must ‘ave been tricking me. But it looked as though Thunderbird had red eyes… and… fangs… he had fangs.” He shook his head. “Maybe I was dreaming.”

“Has a dream ever left you with injuries?” asked d’Artagnan.

Porthos rubbed a hand over his bruised chest. “What are you gettin’ at?”

Athos shared a grim look with d’Artagnan. “Aramis described seeing the same thing.”  

“Do you think Aramis was right?” asked d’Artagnan. “That Thunderbird isn’t…?”

Athos raised an eyebrow. “Mortal? That he’s some kind of demon?” Athos closed his eyes, thought back on the events since arriving in Black Water.

A town appearing within a cloud of fog, a dead body disappearing, and their inability to escape the village.

Athos had been trying to dismiss the supernatural ever since Aramis’ first mention of ghosts, but it was proving harder and harder to discount the idea completely. He’d been lying to himself, rationalizing the nefarious acts occurring in Black Water, but he could no longer explain things with logic or reason. Not when two of his soldiers described seeing the same creature.

He brushed a hand through his hair. “Damn it, Aramis. Why must you touch what’s not yours?”

“What?” asked Porthos. “What did Aramis do?”

Athos shook his head. “He touched that painted pole. Thunderbird called it his totem.”

Porthos looked around the room as if an answer would present itself. “How did that start… what exactly?”

Athos laid a hand on Porthos’ shoulder. “Everything… the town mysteriously surrounding us, the dead bodies and the attack last night… the cold, the fog, our being trapped here… it all started when Aramis touched that damn totem.”

Porthos waved his hands. “Whoa, whoa, wait. Are you saying there’s some sort of… _magic_ at play here?” 

“Not magic,” replied Athos. “But certainly something no human has the right to experience.”

D’Artagnan sat on the edge of Aramis’ bed, his hands pressed against the sides of his head. “This is too much.” After several breaths, he looked at Athos. “This is fairy tales, stories you tell your children to scare them to behave.”

Frustration twisted Athos’ mouth, his gaze drawn to the window above Aramis’ bed.

Fog hung over Black Water like an omen. Pitched roofs poked through the mist like black mountaintops through clouds. Its smoky whiteness smothered every distance object, and nearly swallowed the people below going about their day. Once, merely a portent of bad weather, the fog now chilled Athos to his core.

_What sort of malevolence lurks in this godforsaken town? Are the villagers part of this evil scheme, or simply pawns in Thunderbird’s game? And how are we they to slay such an enemy? Surely sword and pistol will hold no ground. But how does one fight evil with weapons born of this world?_

He grabbed d’Artagnan’s shoulders. “The best way to defeat an enemy is to _know_ that enemy. We must learn what Thunderbird is, and what he has done to Aramis and Porthos.”

D’Artagnan stood. “Where do we start?”

Athos paced the room. “Thunderbird answers with riddles. He will be of no use. Besides, I doubt he’d be willing to tell us how we can defeat him.”

He stopped in front of d’Artagnan. “Go to his cabin, see what you can find there.”

“And what will you do?” 

“I will check on the newcomer who arrived, and see that he stays in his room. We don’t need him getting into trouble.” Athos advanced to the door, d’Artagnan close behind him. “Then I’ll watch over Aramis and Porthos to ensure nothing else happens to them.”

“Be careful,” Athos said, patting his shoulder. “And try to stay clear of the villagers, at least until we’re certain they’re not involved in Thunderbird’s schemes.”

D’Artagnan nodded before taking his leave. Athos stepped into the hallway after him, closed the door quietly then marched toward the newcomer’s room. After a gentle knock, he pushed the door open and stepped into a cold, dark room.

It reeked of decay. Scents of rotted flesh and musty earth wafted on air so frigid it sent goose bumps up and down Athos’ arms. The newcomer lay on his bed atop his blankets, a blue-tinged arm hanging listlessly over the side. Athos rushed to him, placed a hand on his neck. Icy tendrils scurried up his arm, leaving it numb and tingling. He pulled his arm back grasping his hand. “My god.”

He reached forward again to check for puncture wounds. When his hands touched clammy skin, the body disintegrated into smoke.

Athos stumbled backward to the door. Fear rushed through his veins, eroding his natural confidence, making it hard to breath. He fell to the hallway floor, then scrambled to his feet and floundered back into the room where Aramis and, once again, Porthos slept.

He shook Aramis, called his name, then ran to Porthos and slapped his cheek. “Wake up you fools! Wake up!”

Aramis sat up wiping a hand down his face. “What… What is it?”

Athos grabbed his shoulders. “You brought this on us! You had to touch that damn pole! Why don’t you think before you act!” He turned away, aware it was fear not anger fuelling his words. But after witnessing a body vanish into thin air before his eyes, he felt justified in his reaction.

He stepped into the middle of the room, pointed at Porthos. “Look what you’ve done. He may never wake up! And you… You have the same puncture marks. What will happen to you? I might be left with half my men because you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself!”

Aramis paled. “That is what Thunderbird said,” he replied in a quiet voice. “It is my fault, and I’ll never forgive myself if something happens to Porthos… or any of you. No apology can absolve what I have done.”

The hurt in Aramis’ voice clamped tight around Athos’ heart, and he wished he could temper the harshness of his tone. But his emotions had seized control of his actions. “I don’t want an apology. I need you to think before you act. Your actions have a tendency to show no regard for possible consequences.” 

“How was I supposed to know what would happen? I touched a damned pole, not the…”

“The Queen of France?”

Aramis dropped his head into his hands, and Athos realized he was reacting without thought, making him guilty of the same lack of impulse control he’d just accused Aramis of. He let out a breath, but was unwilling to apologize. He’d meant what he’d said. “Well, all this means nothing if we don’t get out of this damn town.”

Aramis looked up. “So you believe me then?”

Athos blustered through his report of seeing the dead newcomer disappear.

“What? How?” asked Aramis.

“I can’t explain it. Can you stand? I need you to catch up with d’Artagnan. He’s gone to Thunderbird’s cabin.”

Aramis nodded, grasped Athos’ proffered hand and stood. When he swayed on his feet, Athos tightened his hold and held him steady. _You look like hell, Aramis,_ he thought. He ran a hand down his face, held the tip of his beard and forced out a long breath.  

“I’m sorry I must ask this of you,” he said, looking into Aramis’ tired eyes. “But no one should be alone.”

Aramis smiled, took his hat off the bedside table and placed it on his head. “I shall persevere.” He left the room slowly, but gained speed as he climbed down the stairs. Athos regretted not being able to grant his friend more time to recover, but their situation didn’t allow it.

He went to Porthos’ bed and shook him. When Porthos’ eyes blinked open, Athos explained what had happened, grateful his friend listened without judgment.

Like the trained soldier he was, Porthos rose to his feet, wherein Athos helped him on with his shirt and doublet. “Are you with me?” 

“Yeah. I’m with you.” 

“We need to find Thunderbird. With another person dead, he must have escaped, and it's our responsibility to keep these villagers from further harm.”

“So... You believe what we saw is real? You think Thunderbird is some sort of creature? What happened to reasonable explanations?”

Athos’ eyes widened. “To hell with reasonable explanations! I just saw a fucking body disappear!” 

_~M~_

Aramis stumbled through the village, tripping over his feet as he placed one in front of the other. Air, cold and damp permeated his lungs.   They burned with each breath he took. Unsure if he could continue, he focused on his target with the precision of a marksman until he reached Thunderbird’s cabin and collapsed on the porch.

“D’Artagnan!”

His head fell against the railing, his eyelids fluttered. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could stave off the exhaustion coercing him to sleep.

D’Artagnan arrived, pulled him to his feet. Aramis swayed, thanked his friend, but insisted on going inside when d’Artagnan suggested he sit down.

“What have you found so far?” Aramis asked, resting against the doorframe.

“Nothing. I’ve found nothing.” Arms spread out to his sides, d’Artagnan turned in a quick circle. “It’s just like it was before. Furniture and walls.”

Fearing he’d collapse if he took a step, Aramis stayed where he was and let his eyes do the searching. “There must be something.” He saw the painting of the ship, a wooden chair, a desk, and a small rug before the hearth. A few unlit lanterns. Nothing of consequence.

D’Artagnan opened the drawers of the desk. “They’re empty.”

Aramis sighed. “Perfect… Wait. His other cabin.”

“Other cabin?”

“Jeanette mentioned Thunderbird kept another cabin outside the village. About one lieu away. Porthos and I tried to find it the other day, but came across the body instead. No visitors are allowed, which makes me wonder what he has hidden there.”

“Do you think you can manage trying to find it again?”

“No. But I’m going with you anyway.” He held out his arm for d’Artagnan to take, and using his friend for support, they left the cabin and headed back into the fog. 

They walked through the village at a snail’s pace. Aramis tired quickly, needing more support than he cared to admit, which made their progression through Black Water a timely deed. Several paths left the village, one of which Aramis knew led to the sea. The others he wasn’t sure about.

“Which way do we go?” asked d’Artagnan.

“I haven’t a clue. You’re guess is as good as mine.”

D’Artagnan led Aramis toward a path at the south end of the village, the opposite direction of the sea. “This is as good as any,” said d’Artagnan, pushing aside branches so they could enter the forest.

After a few minutes of stumbling through the trees, d’Artagnan rubbed his chin and looked curiously at Aramis. “How are you feeling? Do you need to rest?”

Aramis answered with a sigh.

“Does it hurt? The puncture wounds, I mean.”

“A bit. Now that I know they’re there.”

Aramis stopped, closed his eyes. Aware of every ache and pain irritating his body, and struggling to keep his eyes open, he steeled himself with a deep breath. “It feels like I’ve run a thousand miles. Then run into a wall. And repeated it all over again.” He opened his eyes and smiled. “But I must endure. For your sake, as well as my own.”

“My sake?”

“You shouldn’t be alone out here. Who knows what could happen.”

“You don’t look like you’ll be able to fight. Especially with those bruised ribs of yours.”

“When the time comes, I’m sure I can find enough strength inside me to have your back.”

D’Artagnan patted his shoulder, gently urging him forward. “Let’s pray it doesn’t come to that.”

Moving deeper into the fog encumbered forest, picking paths at random, Aramis and d’Artagnan walked for what felt an eternity until they finally found the cabin Jeanette had mentioned.

Unlike the black, tainted wood of Black Water’s established buildings, this small cabin smelled of freshly cut trees. Aramis sniffed and allowed the pungent aroma to awaken his senses. He sniffed again, this time wrinkling his nose when a vile odour replaced the fresh air. “Do you smell that?”

“I smell forest.” D’Artagnan looked around. “No, wait. There’s something else... it’s rot. Dying wood.”

 _Perhaps a dying forest? Drenched in blood_ … His muscles tense to flee a giant, winged shadow swooping down on him, Aramis glanced around. Only living forest surrounded them, and no ominous creature from his vision circled above.   “Where’s it coming from?”

D’Artagnan shrugged.

A low thumping echoed in Aramis’ ears. Quiet at first, but gaining momentum as each second ticked passed.   His gaze snapped skyward, again in anticipation of the winged threat, to see only grey mist hovering above. He clamped a hand over his chest. It rose and fell with each rapid beat of his heart. The sound pounding in his ears was coming from within him.

“What’s wrong?” asked d’Artagnan.

Aramis locked his gaze on his friend’s worried expression, drawing nothing but more apprehension.   “My vision. This place… it smells the same. I feel the same as I did when…” 

“When what?” 

Aramis refused to let fear take control. He drew in a deep breath and forced it out through pursed lips. “Never mind. Let’s just get on with this. The others are waiting.”

After a long stare, d’Artagnan opened the door to the cabin.

Hinges creaked. Odorous smells of decay and bittersweet rot assaulted their senses, forcing them to step back.

D’Artagnan covered his nose. “It smells like the morgue… After it’s flooded.”

Aramis pushed past him into a single room no more than five strides deep. He agreed. It smelled like dead and bloated bodies pulled from the Seine after a week long soak. The handkerchief he pulled from his pocket to cover his nose only mildly diffused the stench.

But nowhere in the cabin could he find the cause of the smell. It seemed to emanate from the walls and floors. Like the room was meant to stink like this.

A desk sat in the middle of the space, old and weathered with chipped corners as if it’d seen many travels. Cluttered across the top were leather bound books, small stone statues of bears and deer and other forest animals. The rug on the floor, threadbare in patches, was colourfully patterned in a way Aramis had never seen before.

On the walls between several bookshelves, hung drawings of young men in loincloths carrying spears. They wielded them over their heads, either fighting or fending off what seemed to be stick figures of the stone animals from the desk. A barbaric custom Aramis found slightly intriguing. It reminded him of ancient Greece; men fighting bare chested for sport in Athens.

But this was not Greece. The shrunken heads aligned on a shelf near the door reminded him of that. Long scraggly hair fell from emaciated skulls. Lips pulled into snarls, exposing yellowed teeth that had not eaten in what seemed decades. Their hollow eye sockets stared at him no matter where he moved. It sent a shiver down his spine, so he tried not to look at them.

“Where do we start?” asked d’Artagnan. 

Aramis went to the shelves behind the desk. “Anywhere. This looks more like a reliquary than a home, so we should be able to find something.” He ran his hand along the row of books, eyes skimming over the bindings until he pulled one from the shelf. “They’re all untitled.”

Flipping through the pages, Aramis realized quickly it was hand-written in a foreign language. He returned it to the shelf, and pulled another one, again featuring a language he could not decipher.    

D’Artagnan walked to the desk. “There’s more here.” He picked one up and leafed through it. “It’s not written in any language I recognize, but there’s an etching carved into the leather cover that looks familiar.”

Aramis stood behind d’Artagnan and leaned over his shoulder. A large bird with expansive wings stared at him from the binding.   “This is the same bird we saw on the totem.”

He opened the book.

“What language is this?” asked d’Artagnan.

Aramis rested his gaze on his friend’s face. “I presume it is Mi’kmaq.”

“Don’t suppose Thunderbird would be willing to translate, do you?”

Aramis slammed the book closed. “No, I suppose not. But I do know someone who might.”

_~M~_

A gnawing feeling in Athos’ gut urged him to check on the innkeeper’s body before searching for Thunderbird. So he helped Porthos down the stairs to the closet where they had stashed the corpse.

He guided Porthos into the chair he’d left outside the room, and pushed open the door. The large canvas lay flat on the floor, and when Athos whipped it away only hay lay beneath, confirming his suspicion. “It’s gone.”

A grumble from Porthos resounded outside, shadowing Athos’ dread.

“But why did it disappear now?” asked Athos, stepping back out of the room.

Porthos rested his elbows on his knees. “I don’t know. I’m tired… can’t think properly.”

Athos shook him. “You must. We must be each other’s protection. You can’t fall asleep on me, I need you watching my back.”

A low groan came from deep within Porthos’ chest, but he sat up and nodded his head, affirming Athos’ belief that his soldiers would do anything if something threatened any one of them.

Athos’ thoughts returned to Thunderbird; he needed to know how he escaped. He was sure he’d locked the room. And Aramis had sigiled the door.

He helped Porthos down the other set of stairs into the cellar. By the time they reached Thunderbird’s cell, Porthos was awake enough to stand on his own.

Athos unlocked the door, surprised it was still locked, and flung it open. On the chair, arms still tied and grinning, sat Thunderbird. 

From the hall, the sound of stomping feet had Athos looking over his shoulder. He turned to see Jeanette leading a mob of villagers down the stairs. The innkeeper was with her, but the other residents he didn’t recognize. 

Joining him, Porthos asked, “What’s going on?”

“It seems the cavalry has arrived,” Athos said, pointing at the pitchforked citizens coming down the stairs. He reached behind him and closed the door, locking it tight once again.

Jeanette stopped in front of him, arms crossed over her chest and chin raised. “Where is he? What have you done with Thunderbird?”

“I saw you take him down here!” shouted the innkeeper.

“He is being held for crimes against the Crown,” stated Athos. “He is in our custody.”

“He’s done no such thing!” yelled the innkeeper. “Release him immediately.”

Jeanette lowered her arms. “Is this true? Has he done such awful things?”

Athos wanted to tell her what Thunderbird had become last night, that he was a monster and they were doing them all a favour by removing him from their village. But it was hard enough for him to believe, how could he make anyone else understand?

“It is true,” replied Athos. “He attacked two of my men last night.”  

One of the villagers raised a fist in the air. “That’s preposterous!”

Athos turned to Porthos. “We need these people under control before they start a riot. Thunderbird won’t be our prisoner much longer if we don’t.”

The crowd surged forward, knocking Jeanette aside as they rushed the door.

Athos shoved them back, his palms turning cold the moment he laid hands on one of their arms. He stumbled, stared at his hands.

Distracted, the villagers were able to push past him. They rushed forward again, knocking on the door and yanking the handle.

Too many for Athos to control at once, he stared at Jeanette. “Stop them. It is for your own good.”

Jeanette’s stare lingered for a moment. “Can I trust you?”

Porthos pressed his hands together. “Yes. I beg you, stop this before we must take action.”

Jeanette glanced at his pistol and sword on his weapons belt. She nodded and turned to the crowd. “Stop this at once!” she shouted. “Let these Musketeers fulfill their duty. ”

The villagers backed away from the door, their shoulders hunched and fists clenched.

“We can’t let them do this,” insisted one of the villagers, his face red in anger.

Jeanette held her arms up, gathering the full attention of the crowd. “In the end, I’m sure these soldiers will realize their mistake and let Thunderbird go free, but until then, we must obey the law of the Crown.”

A collective grumble from the mob suggested they were heeding her words. Athos stepped forward and gestured to the stairs leading from the cellar. He wanted them far away from Thunderbird. “We will speak outside. Follow me, and I will explain what is happening.”

Outside the inn, a fog thick enough to suffocate an entire village, loomed over Black Water, hampering visibility. Athos stood in the still silence, seeing only a few of the villagers who’d been in the cold cellar. He wondered if the others had left, or had been swallowed by the grey mist.  

Jeanette stepped forward, allowing Athos to see her full form. “What is it you wish to say?”

Athos held her gaze. “I’ve told you Thunderbird has been arrested for attacking two Musketeers. What I didn’t tell you, is that he wasn’t… he’s not... human.”

“What do you mean, not human?”

Porthos exposed the wound on his shoulder. “Humans don’t have wings, they don’t have red eyes and their teeth don’t leave marks like this.”

Jeanette’s eyes widened, she gasped, and covered her mouth with her hand. “I’ve never seen such marks before. But if you think you saw a demon, why do you believe it to be Thunderbird?”

“Aramis had a vision when he touched the totem at the entrance of your village…” explained Athos.

Jeanette shook her head. “Vision? This is too much to believe.”

Athos reached forward and tried to place his hands on her trembling shoulders. She tensed and pulled back, eyeing him sideways. “Please, don’t.”

“You must listen to us,” pleaded Athos.

“I must… I must speak with my father,” replied Jeanette. Athos reached for her again, but her raised hand stopped him. “No. Please. Leave me alone." 

She backed away a few steps, then turned and ran into the wall of fog, disappearing from sight.

Athos turned to Porthos to see his friend’s form almost hidden by the grey mist. “This fog is getting thicker,” he said. “We must find Aramis and d’Artagnan before it's too late. I sent them to Thunderbird’s cabin. Hopefully they’re still there.”

“What about Jeanette?”

“We’ll deal with her later. Let’s go before we can’t find anything in this soup.”


	7. Chapter 7

Black Water Rises 

Chapter Seven

Fog enveloped Aramis and d’Artagnan as they made their way back to the settlement. The cold, white mist crept around trees where it made their gnarled trunks appear smooth and sombre, and the sky was nothing more than a grey canvas, waiting to be smeared by sunlight.

The fog didn’t just sap Aramis’ body heat; it stole it away with each step he took. He was sick of it, sick of the haze filling his already stressed lungs. And tired of squinting sore eyes in order to catch a glimpse of something familiar through the dense haze.

The weather fared no better when they reached the town line; the mysterious village still remained half-hidden behind a grey shroud. The fog hugged Aramis’ body in a cold embrace. He reached out a hand, and watched it fade in the mist like some half-forgotten dream. “It’s getting worse. We must find Jeanette quickly.”

D’Artagnan placed one of Aramis’ hands on his shoulder, as he held Thunderbird’s journal in his other. “Hold tight. I’ll guide us through.”

Aramis nodded. Fear and worry were his only fuel, and the act of moving any body part seemed almost an insurmountable task.

They moved forward at a sluggish pace, d’Artagnan navigating his way through the village with an outstretched arm. “It’s like the blind leading the blind.”

Aramis squeezed his shoulder. “Just keep going. You’re doing fine.” 

A short while later they entered a pocket where the fog was thinner. Structures came into view, including the rosemary bushes that indicated the church. D’Artagnan led them toward the familiar sanctuary, then stopped and looked back at Aramis. “Where does Jeanette live?”

Aramis shook his head. “I haven’t a clue.”

“Then we’ll ask someone.”

Aramis squeezed d’Artagnan’s shoulder to stop him from moving away. “Thank you.”

D’Artagnan turned to him, his brow furrowed.   “For what?”

Aramis glanced over his shoulder, then back at d’Artagnan. “For helping me. I fear I may have slipped away had you not led me back here.” His gaze fell downward. “After what I’ve done, what I’ve started…”

“Don’t say another word,” stated d’Artagnan. “We stick together, remember?”

“Yes, but I…” Aramis crumpled forward; his momentum stopped by d’Artagnan’s supporting embrace. “Sleep. I must sleep.”

“Not yet, my friend.”

Strong arms hoisted him upward. Dirt and gravel crumbled under the heels of his boots as d’Artagnan dragged him across the ground and placed him against something solid. Exhaustion prevented Aramis from lifting his head, but he knew he should fight the pull of sleep. He forced his eyes wide, dragged a hand up his body and pinched his own cheek in the hopes of keeping himself awake.

“I’ll be right back,” he heard d’Artagnan say.

_I know you will._

With the wall at his back, Aramis floated into the embrace of a warm sea, all his fight and worries washing away with the feeling of water rippling over his skin. The sea cared not about his guilt or fear, it wished only to embrace and soothe, and Aramis savoured it.

He drifted in this state of slow slumber for what seemed an eternity, before d’Artagnan returned and placed his hands on Aramis’ shoulders. “I’ve found her,” he said. “Come on. Can you get up?”

“Yes,” murmured Aramis, but he lacked the strength to back up his words. The feeling of warmth and water kept pulling him downward into a peaceful abyss.

A sting on his cheek yanked him from the comforting tide until he was forced to blink his eyes open. “What happened?”

“You fell asleep. Now come on. I can’t leave you here.”

The ground beneath Aramis fell away as d’Artagnan hoisted him to his feet. He stood on wobbly legs, like reeds bending in a current, reached deep and somehow found the fortitude to stay awake.

“Let’s go,” he said.

D'Artagnan held Aramis’ head between his hands and looked into his eyes. “You’re with me?”

Aramis patted his shoulder. “I’m with you.”

D’Artagnan led him past the buildings of the village, the smothering fog sucking the colour from everything within its reach and turning it a stony grey. The landscape looked like a blurred painting of a colour-blind painter. Nothing but monotone smudges passing through Aramis’ periphery until they reached the steps of a cabin just beyond the church.

“Here, drink this. It might help,” said d’Artagnan.

A wine skin appeared in Aramis’ hand, to which he accepted with a grateful nod. The red liquid burned its way down his throat into his gut where it re-ignited his perseverance. His need to fight off sleep lessened. He smiled his thanks, climbed the stairs and opened the door.

Jeanette sat at a table with her father; huddled together while holding each other's hands. Aramis thought them praying until Jeanette raised her tear-stricken face to meet his.

“Get out!” she cried.

Aramis dismissed her demand. With d’Artagnan’s help, he approached the table. “I apologize for the intrusion, but we need your assistance.”

Monsieur La Salle rose, stepped between Aramis and his daughter. “You will leave now. I’ll have no foolishness spoken in my house!”

“I’m sorry,” said d’Artagnan. “But this is important.”

Jeanette turned in her seat so she was facing Aramis. “What is it you want?”

Aramis struggled with how much to tell her. “I have something important to tell you, and you’ll most likely not believe me. I barely believe it myself.”

Jeanette’s watery eyes tore Aramis’ heart. How could he tell her that he’d seen her corpse? 

“Aramis, what is it?” she asked.

Realizing he’d spent too much time lost in thought, he answered her. “Thunderbird is not a person like you or I, ” he said, slowly. “He’s… He’s… something else. And he has trapped us here. I suspect…”

Jeanette wrapped an icy hand around his. Aramis closed his eyes, fought the urge to pull back. “Aramis, you speak nonsense,” she said.

“No,” he said. “I speak the truth. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

“Seen what?”

“You’re corpse. Long deceased and laying on the shore.”

Jeanette pulled her hand back, drew in a sharp breath as she covered her mouth. “No. That is nonsense. Impossible. I think you and your friends should leave Black Water at once.”

Aramis reached for her, failing to grasp her hand when she retracted it into her lap. “I know what I saw. I can’t explain it. I’d show you the proof, if it hadn’t disappeared when we returned.” He paused. “The innkeeper. I can show…”

“No!” Jeanette turned into the embrace of her father. 

“This is ludicrous!” spat Monsieur La Salle. “Your friends have upset my daughter enough! She doesn’t need to hear more of your foolish tales. Take your leave!”

“You spoke with the others?” asked d’Artagnan.

“Earlier,” replied Monsieur La Salle. “Your friends, Athos and Porthos, frightened my Jeanette with some preposterous tale about demons.”

Jeanette turned to Aramis, tears soaking her face. “Please go.”

Aramis had expected an emotional reaction, but it still felt like a punch to the gut, which promptly reminded him of his own injuries. 

He’d forgotten about the stabbing in his belly and aching lungs. He closed his eyes, coughed gently, instinctively wrapping an arm around his torso to help brace the brunt of his pain. He was grateful blood no longer tinged his lips.

“That’s one thing in my favour,” he said. 

Fatigue urged him to sit, but he settled on leaning against the mantle of the fireplace beside Jeanette. D’Artagnan came to him. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. We need answers and we need them to cooperate with us.”

“Well, maybe this will help.” D’Artagnan turned Aramis around and exposed the back of his neck. “Look at these,” he said to Jeanette and her father. “Thunderbird did this.”

“I saw the same marks on your friend, Porthos,” replied Jeanette. She furrowed her brow, leaned closer for a better look. “I’ve never seen anything like them before.” She looked to her father. “What is happening?”

D’Artagnan passed her the book tucked under his arm. “We’re hoping to find the answers in here.”

“What’s this?” asked La Salle.

“We found it in Thunderbird’s cabin,” replied d’Artagnan. “The one hidden in the woods. But we can’t read it. We were hoping you could.”

Jeanette took the book and placed it on the table in front of her. “I don’t know what you expect to find in here, but if it helps settle all this nonsense, I will try. Where shall I start?”

“The beginning’s always good,” said d’Artagnan.

Monsieur La Salle stood behind his daughter with his hands resting on her shoulders as she opened the book.

“It starts with… Well, there’s passages about Jacques Cartier and the fur trade,” she said. Jeanette put her head down, traced a finger along the script, mumbling words neither Aramis nor d’Artagnan understood.

She raised her head, eyes wide. “He talks about a Virginian chasing settlers out of Acadia. I remember hearing about that.”

D’Artagnan shrugged. “Maybe that angered him? I know how I felt when my farm was destroyed.”

Aramis patted his shoulder, but kept his attention on Jeanette. “Go on,” he said. “This is important.”

Jeanette ran her finger down the page. “Chaleur Bay…”

“Where’s that?” asked Aramis. 

“The coast of Acadia,” replied Jeanette, her head still bowed over the book. “Wait… _The Jesuits came for me today. They insist I believe in their god. They burned my home, but they did not catch me_.” She stopped reading and looked up at her father. “It’s a journal.”

Aramis knelt in front of her. “Please,” he said, pointing at the book. “This is helping.”

“We need to find out what he is,” said d’Artagnan. “Is there anything in there that can help us kill him?”

“Kill him?” Jeanette shook her head and closed the book. “I will no longer help if your purpose is to murder our magistrate.”

Monsieur La Salle squeezed her shoulder. “Jeanette, please continue.”

Aramis saw a spark of curiosity in La Salle’s eyes when the man furrowed his brow. Aramis dipped his head and mouthed a thank-you.  

Jeanette hung her shoulders and sighed, but after a moment she re-opened the book. “ _I found Frenchmen in a camp_ ,” she read aloud. “ _They were hunters. Dressed in furs my people gave them, ungrateful to the animals that provided them.   I watched for hours, their infernal fire licking and growling at me, staving me off.   I had to find refuge elsewhere._ ”

Aramis pulled on his beard, considered the words from the journal, when suddenly the room swayed and the floor tilted at an odd angle beneath him. He rolled his eyes, fought the blackness creeping across his sight, desperate to hold onto something. He stood and reached out to grasp the mantle for support, but caught only air.

D’Artagnan’s arms wrapped around him, guiding him into a chair. “You should return to the room. You need to rest.”

“I can’t,” replied Aramis. He coughed, held a hand to his chest to stem the burn in his lungs, and looked at d’Artagnan. “You must not be alone.”

D’Artagnan knelt in front of him. “Are you sure? I can take care of myself.”

Aramis appreciated his bravado and smiled. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with. None of us can take care of ourselves.”

“Then sit here,” said d’Artagnan. “Rest.” He turned to Jeanette. “Have you found anything else?”

Jeanette spun the book around for d’Artagnan to see and pointed at a passage. “This speaks of our return to France. How we built the village and of Thunderbird being… _sated_ on the villagers. He then says he must leave this world until he needs to feed again. But first he planted his totem so he could return.” 

“What does that mean? Leave this world how? To go where?” asked d’Artagnan.

Jeanette shook her head. “I don’t know.” 

Aramis wrapped his fingers around her pale hand. “What do you remember of your arrival here?” 

Monsieur La Salle walked around the table and took a seat across from Aramis. “It seems so long ago,” he said, head buried in his hands. “I remember building this village… excited to see my brother in Cherbourg after the long voyage home.”

“Did you see him?” asked d’Artagnan.

La Salle shook his head. “I don’t think so. I don’t remember ever leaving Black Water.”

“Neither do I,” said Jeanette. “I don’t remember much of anything before this town. It wasn’t until you pressed me about the necklace that I even tried.”

La Salle looked into Aramis’ eyes. “What is happening here?”

Aramis swallowed the lump filling his throat. He tried not to avert his gaze, but an explanation kept bouncing around the back of his mind, too impossible to speak. He’d heard of people losing their memories, but that usually occurred after an injury to the head. What was happening here was collective. No one in Black Water seemed to remember much of anything before arriving.

Which meant, the whole town was affected. Something happened to these citizens when they arrived back in France.

Thunderbird also said he was sated. _On what?_ Thought Aramis. The more he considered what the journal said, the more uncomfortable his nerves became.

He looked away from Jeanette. “I don’t know,” he replied. “Keep reading. And I assure you, we will get to the bottom of this.”  

~M~

Athos led a lethargic Porthos from inside Thunderbird’s cabin onto the porch, cursing they hadn’t found their companions inside. Porthos was fading, his weight heavier on Athos’ shoulders, his feet dragging across the porch. “How are you feeling?” he asked, turning to his friend.

“As stout as you,” replied Porthos. 

Drooping eyelids and heavy blinking contradicted Porthos’ statement. Athos clenched his jaw. He wished he could grant his friend rest, but knew they couldn’t afford any delays. 

They ambled down the stairs, but Porthos dropped himself onto the bottom step, bringing their journey to a halt. He looked heavenward and dragged a hand down his face. “How are we supposed to find Aramis and d’Artagnan in this soup?”  

The fog loomed over the village as far as Athos could see, almost tangible as it shrouded everything in white mist. Townsfolk moving about, the clanking of a blacksmith's hammer ringing as it struck horseshoes, should have filled Athos’ ears, but even the sounds of Porthos’ heavy breathing were swallowed by the mist.

“The only way is to keep trying,” replied Athos.

He pulled Porthos to his feet and led him through the village, asking the people they passed if they’d seen their friends. Many shrugged and went on with their business, while others frowned and ignored their questions.

A man walking on a path up ahead caught Athos’ attention. He wore the same clothes and beard as the newcomer whose body had vanished before him hours ago. _Could it be him? No. That is impossible._

Athos considered talking with him, but realized it would do no good. What answers could he have? Besides, Porthos was in a precarious enough state as it was, and stopping would just delay finding the others.

Hoping a familiar face would help them find their friends, Athos sought out the blacksmith’s shop on Porthos’ suggestion. At the threshold of the one-story cabin, Athos threw open the door and pulled Porthos in behind him.

Iron and coal filaments floated in the air of the small room. A kiln fire burned without purpose. Tools lay strewn about, their owners’ whereabouts unknown. Athos stepped forward, his honed instincts demanding caution.  

Porthos leaned against the wall by the entrance, sliding down to the floor. “I’m so tired.”

Athos pulled him up and held him firm against the wall. “Stay with me,” he pleaded, patting Porthos’ cheek.

“Yeah, yeah,” replied Porthos, nodding his head. His lips formed a straight line behind his beard, his eyes focused on Athos. “I’ve got this. I’ve got this.”

Athos trusted his friend’s resolve and turned back to the room. The fire warmed the shop, and the walls kept the fog at bay, but with lighting dimmed by lack of windows and soot coated furnishings, Athos had difficulties making his way around. He shuffled his feet, inched to his right and peered behind an oak counter.

Nothing.

Athos could not shake what he’d seen in the newcomer’s room, and he carried it with him as searched the shop. He kept a slow pace as he worked his way around the room, his guard on high, half-expecting to find the blacksmith dead, only to see his body disappear. 

“There’s no one here,” he said, heaving a breath.

Porthos chuckled. “He’s the only other person in this village I’ve spoken to, ” he said. “Except for Jeanette. I was hopin’ he’d be willing to help.” 

Athos returned to him. “If he were here, perhaps he would have.”

“You don’t think…” 

Athos held up a finger. “Don’t finish that question. ”  

Porthos smiled. “Yeah. Keep positive thoughts and all that.” 

“Words to live by, old friend,” said Athos. He pulled Porthos along behind him as he exited the shop. “Now stay awake. We need to keep searching.”

“You sound worried?”

“And your not? Aramis and d’Artagnan are out there, without our help. And I sent them. Now the fog’s getting worse, and we’re floundering about out here looking for them!”

Porthos nodded, but remained quiet as they started their search for their friends.

Engulfed in fog once again, and short on familiar faces or ideas, Athos relinquished his hopes of finding Aramis and d’Artagnan by conventional means, and drew in a deep breath. He called their names into the fog, hoping to instigate a demeaning game of blind man’s bluff.

~M~

Unsure if the voice calling his name originated in a dream world, Aramis pricked his ear toward the door of Jeanette’s cabin. He heard it again, and sat upright when he realized it was Athos’ familiar voice.  

“D’Artagnan,” he said, twisting in his chair to point at the door.

D’Artagnan bounded across the room. “I hear him too.” He flung open the door. “Athos! Over here.”

Their friends stepped over the threshold moments later, Athos cradling Porthos as he dragged him into a chair. “I thought we’d never find you,” he said.

“It is good that you have,” replied Aramis. “We’ve found something.”

Athos knelt beside Aramis and squinted at him.   “You’ve grown paler,” he remarked. “How are you feeling?”

“About as good as him, I suppose,” Aramis replied, with a nod toward Porthos.

Athos placed a hand on each of his friends’ knees. “You two are fading quickly. It appears the life is being sapped from your bodies.”

“We better not find our corpses somewhere,” said Porthos.

“Better than having them disappear,” replied Aramis.

“Skadegamutc,” muttered Jeanette.

“What was that?” asked d’Artagnan. 

Eyes wide, Jeanette stared at d’Artagnan. “The Ghost-Witches of the Mi'kmaq. Eater of souls. I just remembered.”

Her father took her hands in his, held them to his chest. “It can’t be, child,” he whispered.

Jeanette pulled her hands back. “But father, that is what they are describing. They come and go from this world to sate their appetites. Evil sorcerers whose spirits’ refuse to die.” She turned wide eyes on Aramis. “They feed on human souls. Drain them of life.” 

“What did you call it,” he asked. “Skad…da…what?”

Jeanette voiced it out. “Ska…de…ga… moosh.” 

“Ah, yes, easy enough,” replied Aramis, rolling his eyes. But knowing the name of Thunderbird’s true form meant nothing if they didn’t know how to kill it.

“Could it be true? Could Thunderbird really be a Ghost-Witch?” asked Jeanette.

“Keep reading,” said d’Artagnan. “We may learn more.”

Jeanette flipped further into the journal. “ _I raised the fog today to quench my hunger,_ ” she read aloud. “ _But the fog is thin for I am weak. I cannot sustain the veil until I eat. Bones of my past feeds may appear, so I am fortunate someone has awoken my totem so I may take solid form once more and re-gain my strength. I’ve been dormant… without food, for far too long. My previous feast no longer sustains me…_ ”

Aramis coughed in disbelief. _Solid form. Feast..._ A strangled sound emanated from his lips, but he said nothing. He’d suspected something ominous had happened to these villagers, and now he seemed to have proof.

“ _… But now I will enter this world and feed again,_ ” continued Jeanette. “ _The villagers shall arise with me, believing it just another day. It has been many moons since they last walked this plane, but their memories will know nothing of it as they keep me company and welcome the newcomers to Black Water._ ”

“That’s how the town appears?” questioned Athos. “He summons the fog when he’s hungry, trapping people in its maze?”

Aramis hung his head. “And I brought him here when I touched the pole.”  

“Hold on,” said Jeanette. “It also says… _the Musketeers have explored too much. I must eat and gather strength before they discover what I do not want known. Perhaps fear will settle in their spirits, and make them all the more splendid to eat? They have found the bones of Madame La Salle..._ ” 

She dropped the page, her mouth agape as she stared up at her father. Aramis grabbed her hand before she spoke, stopping words of disbelief from tumbling out of trembling lips. “Breathe,” he said. “Feel my hand touching yours. Concentrate on that.”

Her watery eyes looked at Aramis. “But we are…” 

“Ghosts,” confirmed Aramis. His stomach tied into knots as he spoke the word, but he held the evidence in his hand. Her frigid touch sent shivers down his spine. “You died long ago. Remember what the journal said… _my previous feast no longer sustains me_. He was referring to the residents of Black Water. All that survived the storm, that is.”

“He murdered us!” bellowed La Salle. He stepped back, eyes narrowed and hands clenched. “He never rescued us, he’s holding us prisoner!”

“I’m afraid so,” said Athos. “A newcomer arrived earlier today, and I saw his body disappear after he’d died. I just saw that same man walking about Black Water like nothing happened. We must end this. But for us to do so, we need to remain calm and keep level heads.”

“How can you expect us to remain calm?” La Salle paced the room before settling behind his daughter. “We just found out we are dead! Since returning to France, our lives have been nothing but a sham! We are fools for not having seen the truth!”

Jeanette patted one of his hands. “There was no way for us to know,” she said. “I’ve felt as alive as the day we left for the Americas. We have breathed, we have slept, we have woken to see new days.”

“Days!” spat La Salle. “It could have been months we slept. It was just our foolishness that made us think it was a tomorrow.”

“If you are fools, then so am I,” stated Aramis. He rubbed his neck where puncture marks bruised his skin, trying his hardest not to think of the fate that might await him. “I was… attacked by Thunderbird as well, but I don’t plan to let this continue.”  

“What would you have us do?” shouted La Salle. “After all, we are dead!”

“Father, please,” said Jeanette, her voice breaking. “Let him finish.”

“I understand the severity of the situation,” Aramis said. “But you must read on. ”

“It’s the only way we will learn how to defeat Thunderbird,” added Athos.

Jeanette’s hand shook as she ran her fingers down the next page. Tears fell from her eyes, and Aramis wrapped his hand around one of hers. “You can do this, I will help.”

Jeanette nodded. “Just don’t let go of my hand. If I can’t be alive, at the least, I can still _feel_ alive.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

Jeanette read aloud, her voice soft and broken between sobs.   “ _Insufferable fools. My feast was interrupted. My strength is only half its power and I question how long I can hold the veil._ ”

“Ey! That was written after you caught him, right?” asked Porthos. “How could he ‘ave written this when he was locked up?”

Athos shook his head. “He must have escaped the cellar and returned to his cabin.”

“How? The door was locked from the outside when we went to check on him?”

“Remember, he is not of this earth,” Aramis said.

“This is all good,” interrupted d’Artagnan. “But we need to find out how to kill him. And fast.”

“I don’t remember much of the tales,” replied Jeanette. “But I do recall the Skadegamutc dislikes fire.”

“He spoke of it in his journal,” said Porthos.

“And he seemed rather furious the hearth was burning at the feast,” added Aramis.

D’Artagnan shifted his feet, crossed his arms over his chest. “Perhaps burning him will bring his death?”

Aramis nodded in d’Artagnan’s direction. “It’s our only option so far.”

As they readied to leave, Jeanette’s small voice reached them before they opened the door. “But what will happen to us?” she asked.

Selfishly, a different question popped into Aramis’ mind… _What will happen to Porthos and I?_


	8. Chapter 8

** Black Water Rises **

Chapter Eight

Aramis brushed his thumb across Jeanette’s cold knuckles. He didn’t know what would happen to her, or any of the villagers when they disposed of Thunderbird, but he suspected they would all die along with him.

 _Perhaps die, isn’t the right word_ , he thought, looking into her eyes. Sadness stared back at him, choking his speech. That wasn’t all that kept him quiet. Since deducing the villager’s fates, he’d been contemplating his and Porthos’ futures.

But he could not think of that right now. He had a demon to slay, and a village to save. He only hoped, that in the end, his friend’s would forgive him his transgressions.

“We don’t know what will happen to you,” answered Athos. He untangled Aramis’ hands from hers and pulled him toward the door. “We have never dealt with anything of the likes of Thunderbird.”

Porthos rose from his chair, ran a hand down his face. “Hold on. Are we really going to burn a man alive?”

“A Skademgamutc,” d’Artagnan reminded him.

“Easy for you to say,” huffed Porthos.

Aramis rubbed the puncture marks behind his neck. _Ghost-Witch. From ancient Mi’kmaq lore. A filthy spirit who feeds on human souls._ He stepped outside, his jaw clenched to stop it from trembling. Conviction to see peace come to Jeanette and her father, paused him in the threshold, He glanced back inside, and forcing a smile, he promised the La Salle’s everything would be okay soon.

Torches were gathered from the derelict blacksmith’s shop, and a pyre was constructed in the village square. Athos and d’Artagnan worked diligently to assemble what they’d need, while Aramis and Porthos, too tired and sore to work, rested on the steps of the inn.

D’Artagnan dropped a log onto the amassing woodpile, then set off back into the forest to salvage more. Townsfolk watched from their doorways and paused in the street, but didn’t interfere.

Porthos grunted and shook his head before turning to Aramis. “You know, it feels like we’re killing good people.”

Aramis patted one of his slumped shoulders and looked into his tired eyes. “We can not kill what is already dead. We are putting them to rest. They deserve peace, and we shall grant them it by burning Thunderbird.” He looked down. “But yes, I know what you mean.”

“Are we sure we’d even be killing the villagers by burning Thunderbird? What if we end up trapping them here for eternity? Never able to leave?”

“Then we burn the whole village if we have to,” stated Athos.

He’d appeared from around the corner of the inn, lips firm and walking a fast pace. D’Artagnan followed a few paces behind, equally as convicted. Aramis hadn’t heard them, nor had he been watching them and was surprised by their arrival. 

Athos stopped at the steps to the inn, then took them in slow measured paces. “Let’s get on with this before any of us lose our courage.” With his hand wrapped around the door latch, he made no further movements.

Athos carried himself with such confidence, though some days it didn’t reach his eyes. _Much like right now_ , Aramis thought. 

After a deep breath, Athos opened the door.  

Aramis followed behind Athos, through the inn, his legs stronger after the short rest. But it fought off his exhaustion in exchange for dizziness, making the short walk to the cellar seem an eternity. Beside him, Porthos faired no better. His eyes fluttered, and when they were open, they were wide and unfocused. 

Aramis patted his shoulder. “We will get through this, friend.”

Outside the cell, Athos ran his fingers over the cygil Aramis had carved into the door. Aramis was used to his friend’s quiet reflections, but this was different. Athos’ expression was placid, like a man who’d reached his limit and depleted of all emotions.

Aramis reached slowly for the rosary beads handing on the door handle. He lifted them and put them in his pocket. “You are not the only one doing this,” he whispered.

Athos’ eyes’ closed, his head dipped forward. He exhaled through his nose. “But I am the one giving the order.”

“Because of my mistake,” replied Aramis. He opened the door and pushed it open. 

Sitting tied to a chair in the cold cellar was Thunderbird. He seemed different. His hair seemed longer, wilder and straggled. The dim light made his skin look leathery.   And his shoulders seemed broader, pushing the fabric of his shirt to its limits. But the smile he wore chilled Aramis’ heart.

He imagined Thunderbird’s lips curling back, exposing sharp crooked teeth. He imagined them ripping into his shoulder, and shuddered.

The room was as silent as a stone box when Athos entered the room behind him. D’Artagnan followed a pace behind with his sword drawn. Aramis thought it best he and Porthos remain in the door in case Thunderbird attempted an escape, so they braced themselves shoulder to shoulder in the doorframe. Deep down, Aramis suspected a physical barrier would do nothing to hold Thunderbird should he decide to escape. That was obvious based on the newcomer’s death. But taking a defensive position felt familiar, and real. It helped bolster Aramis’ confidence, making him feel strong again.

D’Artagnan pierced Thunderbird’s chest with the tip of his rapier, making him squirm but holding him in place while Athos undid the ropes tying Thunderbird to the chair.   When he was released, Athos ordered him to stand.

“As you wish.” Thunderbird rose slow and steady from his chair, his eyes shining bright even in the dim light of the cellar. The tip of d’Artagnan’s sword fell away, and not even a drop of blood stained Thunderbird’s shirt.

“Be careful,” murmured Aramis. “Remember what he is.”

Athos tied an end of one of the ropes into a noose. “I don’t suppose you’ll come nicely, will you?”

“Come where?”

“We’ve got a nice little spot picked out for you in the village square,” replied Porthos.

Thunderbird canted his head. “What do you plan to do with me?”

“We’re sending you back to hell,” said Aramis.

“That is a Christian construct,” replied Thunderbird.

Athos inched closer to his prey. “We can do this the hard way, or the easy…”

Thunderbird thrust his foot backward, kicking the chair into the wall where it shattered to pieces. “By all means,” he drawled in a thick voice. He dropped his head an inch forward, his gaze fixed on Athos. The room turned cold, like a winter storm front had blown through the cell. “But I suspect you will do no such thing.”

Thunderbird’s eyes turned dark. Aramis saw the specks of tiny white dots reflected them in… _like stars at night_. He rushed forward and pulled Athos back. “Don’t look into his eyes! He plays tricks with your mind.” 

The moment Athos turned to Aramis, Thunderbird pounced.

Athos was snatched between two strong arms, rendering him immobile. D’Artagnan threw himself on Thunderbird’s back, punching and cursing. Aramis and Porthos drew their swords, slashed at Thunderbird’s legs to avoid hitting their friends.

A deep cut from Porthos’ shianova dropped Thunderbird to his knees. Athos pulled away and scrambled to the door. “D’Artagnan! Get off him!" 

When their friend cleared off Thunderbird, Aramis and Porthos lunged forward with raised swords, piercing Thunderbird’s shoulders. His shrill cry reverberated around the small room, as the sword tips remained embedded in his shoulders.

Aramis and Porthos pushed forward until Thunderbird’s back hit the wall where he remained pinned, screeching and clawing, kicking and thrashing.

Porthos dug his shianova deeper. “We can’t hold him much longer!”

D’Artagnan grabbed a pair of splintered chair legs and ran into the hall. He came back with them aflame. “Fire. He hates fire.”

“Good thinking.” Athos grabbed two more pieces of the chair and ran to the lit torches in the hallway.  

Thunderbird hissed and snarled when Athos passed a torch to Aramis.

“Move in close,” Aramis said. He removed his sword from Thunderbird’s shoulder, watching him close for signs of attack. “Now you, Porthos. Slow and steady.”

Porthos yanked his blood-soaked sword from Thunderbird’s shoulder. _Or that_ , mused Aramis.

Athos moved in. It didn’t take much prodding to get Thunderbird moving, merely waving the flames near him worked well enough. He cowered when the flames licked at his clothes, and his attempts to attack were easily thwarted by a quick thrust of the burning flames. When they arrived outside, things became difficult.

It was decided that Porthos lead the way to keep any villagers who dared interfere at bay. Most stood back, watching with craned necks and whispering with their neighbours. The few that ventured forward quickly retreated when Porthos glared at them. Aramis was glad the big guy was one his side.

Unfortunately, that big guy was deteriorating as fast as Aramis. He walked on shaky legs and he kept rubbing his eyes when they weren’t involved in staving off the villagers. Aramis commiserated with Porthos, for he felt the same weakness invading his own body. It wasn’t until Athos and d’Artagnan began securing Thunderbird to the pyre that Aramis experienced a somewhat excited state.

He scratched his chin and laid tired eyes on the _thing_ tied to the pole. “We found your adversary. And it seems, you will be making acquaintances soon enough.”

Thunderbird’s gaze flicked to the pyre. “You are to burn me, alive, I presume?”

“That’s the plan,” replied Aramis.

Two things happened at once. Thunderbird’s muscles deflated, and he smiled.

 _What was that for?_ _He has no business smiling._ Suspicious and eager, Aramis pulled Athos back from the monster, then gestured for d’Artagnan to do the same. “Let’s get on with this,” he said, nodding at Porthos.

No movement came from Porthos, making Aramis turn to him. “What’s wrong?”

“Are we really doing this?” asked his friend.

There was a tinge of remorse in Porthos’ voice that Aramis had not expected. “Of course,” he replied. “We have no other choice.”

“You can’t possibly be having cold feet?” Athos said, more than asked. “You are one of his victims.”

Porthos shook his head as he stared at the ground. “That’s my point. What will happen to Aramis and I if we actually do this?”

The blood left Aramis’ face like water down a chute. It pooled in his boots, making it harder to stand with each passing moment. He’d been terrified of this moment since he first thought of it himself.

“We can only wait and see,” he replied. Aramis knew that wasn’t enough to sway his friend’s hesitations and fears, but it was all he had.

Beside him, Athos paled. Short breaths pumped his lungs. His gaze remained fixed on Thunderbird, lips parted as if wanting to say something. He stood silent for several beats before clamping his mouth closed. 

Fearing what his friend was about to say, dread filled Aramis from his head to his feet. He had a good idea of what would happen to him and Porthos, and from Athos’ little display, Aramis believed he knew as well. But saying it out loud would make it more real, and Aramis knew neither of them wanted to be the one to make it so.

“Aramis,” whispered Porthos. “What’s gonna happen to us?”

D’Artagnan shouldered his way between them and wrapped an arm around each of their shoulders. “You’ll be okay,” he said, in quiet voice. “Tell them, Athos. Tell them they will be okay.”

“I can’t.”

Porthos shook his head. “Naw, this can’t be true.”

D’Artagnan walked up to Athos, stood behind him and pointed back at Aramis and Porthos. “Tell them they will survive this. Go on. Tell them!”

“I’m so sorry. But I can’t.”

Porthos dropped to his knees.

Aramis did the same and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. His own life he would spare to save a village, but he could not ask that of his brothers. Porthos had been brought into this because of him, and now he was going to die because of him. “I am to blame for…”

“You son-of-a-bitch!” Porthos, rose to his feet. “Why can’t you leave well enough alone? Why’d you have to touch that damn pole!”

Aramis’ jaw quivered, his head swam in circles. “I acted without thinking.” 

“Just like everything in your life, you touch what isn’t yours!” cried Porthos.

A deep laugh erupted from Thunderbird’s chest. In unison, the musketeers turned to him.

“What will happen to them?” demanded d’Artagnan.

Thunderbird shrugged. “I truly don’t know.” He licked his lips, running his gaze across their faces with interest. “I never finished my feed.” 

“Enough!” shouted Athos. “We need to finish this.”

“This is our lives at stake here!” replied Porthos. His hands were balled into fists, his eyes narrowed.

“I know!” replied Athos.   “But what would you have us do? We have no choice. I’m sorry.”

Porthos stepped forward and pounded his chest. “This is us we’re talking about! How can you be so callous? This isn’t right!”

Athos closed his eyes. “There’s nothing _right_ about any of this! But we must do what we must do!”

Although Athos spoke words of conviction, his tone reflected a deep sense of regret that burned a hole in Aramis’ heart. It wasn’t only his and Porthos’ lives at risk here, but those of Athos and d’Artagnan. They would live on with the memories that their friends died in some god-forsaken village, knowing they’d had a hand in their deaths.

The ones lighting the pyre were also the ones destroying Black Water and all its ghosts, as well Aramis and Porthos. Aramis had nothing to say to that. Guilt ridden and exhausted, he almost wished it were over until he looked into Porthos’ eyes.

“I’m sorry, old friend,” he said, putting a hand on Porthos’ shoulder.

Anger, or fear, Aramis wasn’t sure, rippled beneath Porthos’ skin. A vein above the scar of his left eye throbbed, and his mouth was set in a grim line. “Don’t worry about it,” said Porthos, but Aramis knew him too well.

He didn’t want Aramis to die with regret or guilt. Porthos’ departing words were meant to relieve worry, and allow Aramis a peaceful journey. Aramis would have no part of it. He deserved anger. He deserved his best friend hating him.

But all he got were sad, despondent eyes looking back at him. Which tore Aramis’ already broken heart in two.

“Shall we get on with this?”

Athos’ voice jolted Aramis from his misery, causing him to jump. He put away his guilt and sadness in order to see this through without second-guessing himself.

Aramis signed the cross, then folded his hands in front of him. Before him, Thunderbird stood silently watching them with a perpetual frown creasing his brow. Aramis wondered how he could remain so calm when facing his mortality, but decided that in the end, he really didn’t care.

He cleared his throat and looked around at his brothers; each standing and facing the pyre with a determination any Musketeer would be proud of. “Would anyone like to say something?”

“A prayer would be nice,” said Porthos. “My soul could use a good cleansing before I depart this earth.”

Suddenly, Athos looked at Porthos. “I’m not convinced you’re going to die.”

“That’s a sudden change of opinion,” replied Aramis.

D’Artagnan looked at him. “I’m with Athos.”

Aramis smiled. “I wish I had your optimism.”

“It’s not optimism,” replied Athos. “After considering this, there is no evidence to suggest you will die along with these villagers. Thunderbird just said as much.”

Aramis quirked his head to the side. “And there’s none that suggests we won’t.”

Athos stared straight ahead, studying Thunderbird. No frown furrowed his forehead; no smirk crinkled his eyes. His face was placid. Aramis had no idea what he was thinking.

Eventually, he turned to Aramis. “Then you pray. D’Artagnan and I will light the fire.” He stepped forward and tossed his torch onto the pyre. Porthos followed after him, then d’Artagnan.

It took several minutes for the piled wood to ignite. Aramis watched Thunderbird closely, and saw no reaction come from the man facing his own death. Thunderbird leaned his head back against the pole, closed his eyes and let the flames inch closer and closer to his body.

“I thought fire was supposed to frighten him?” asked Porthos.

Aramis turned to him. “I thought so as well.”

Again, Athos stood as stone. “Aramis? It’s your turn.”

Aramis held his torch close to the dry wood at Thunderbird’s feet. Flames grew higher and higher, cracking and popping as it devoured the wood. Aramis studied his torch, calculated how long he could hold on before having to let it go. The fire stung his fingers, singed the hairs on the back of his hand before he finally tossed it into the pyre.

He rubbed his burnt hand, deliberately increasing the pain as a way of punishment. _Damn it_ , he thought. It was the least he could do after what he’d done to Porthos and this village.

Thinking of Black Water, he turned around in search of the Jeanette. He knew she’d be watching, and nodded in her direction when he saw her standing on the front steps of the church.

She waved to him, her thin fingers swaying back and forth in a gesture of good-bye.

Aramis couldn’t watch, and turned away.

“Hey, look out.” Porthos pulled Aramis back as one of the flames flicked close to his legs.

Aramis didn’t see the point; he was dying anyway. He could feel it. Feel his energy slipping away. Feel his heart beat slowing and his eyes closing. It wasn’t long before he fell to the ground along with Porthos, where he used his last bit of strength to turn to his friend. “I’m sorry.”

Porthos’ eyes were closed, and Aramis never knew if his friend even heard him.

Being a Musketeer for as long as he had, death was an abstract thing for Aramis, thought of not in horror, but with casualness that most would consider cold. But this was not abstract death nipping at his and Porthos’ heels. It was real.

Aramis turned his face heavenward, listened to the fire hissing and spitting at his feet. Someone held his hand, he wasn’t sure whom, and he lacked the strength to open his eyes and find out. Whoever it was, Aramis appreciated the comfort.

The ground started shaking. Aramis felt it rattle his bones. A low-pitched cackle came from the pyre. Aramis opened his eyes, lifted his head with what little strength he had, and watched smoke trailing upward, the stench of burning flesh filling his nose.

Aramis’ first thought was, I’m not dead. His second, was that neither was Porthos.

He sat up and looked around. Porthos was also sitting. Athos and d’Artagnan were kneeling beside them staring at the fire. The pole, and Thunderbird along with it, was gone. They watched only flames burning off the remnants of the wood.

The earth shook again. Aramis braced his hands on the ground on either side of him. “What’s happening?”

“Why is the village still here?” asked d’Artagnan, looking around. “I thought it would disappear when Thunderbird died?”

“And why aren’t we dead?” asked Porthos.

Aramis spun his head toward the church. Jeanette stood there with her hands pressed against her lips. The other villagers stood around the central square, watching the scene with curiosity.

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” Aramis said. He rolled onto to his knees to push to standing. Hands grabbed him around the waist and hoisted him upward. On weak legs, he studied the pyre. “Is it over?”

“I don’t know,” replied Athos. He inched forward, closer to the diminishing smoke and flames when the ground rumbled again. He stopped and looked back. “What is that!” 

D’Artagnan helped Porthos to his feet, and they both moved to stand next to Aramis. Aramis smiled at Porthos, patted his shoulder. “Good to see you, friend.”

“Good to be seen.”

D’Artagnan squeezed between them, placing an arm around each of the their shoulders. He grinned at them both. “Well this is good news.”

“It is, but what about them?” asked Athos. “What about this?” He waved his arms, indicating the village and its residents still present.

Aramis scratched his cheek. “Like I said, let’s not look a gift horse in the mouth.”

Anger burned in Athos’ eyes. “They are ghosts, Aramis! This village is an atrocity!” 

“But Porthos and I are alive, and Thunderbird is gone.”

Lightning arced across the sky. Aramis closed his eyes against the blinding light. Cackling came from the pyre and he opened them again. Smoke, once floating in sinewy flares toward the sky, started coalescing into a giant ball where the pole once stood.

Athos stepped back. “What in god’s name is happening?”

Red eyes penetrated the smoke. A mouth, wide and filled with jagged teeth formed beneath them.

Aramis drew his sword. “Thunderbird is not dead.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Black Water Rises**  

Chapter Nine 

Black smoke reeking of rotted flesh danced with spiralling fog as it rose from the pyre. It meshed together, moving like the breath of an unseen beast, blowing out then sucking back in on itself. Aramis’ heart pounded as a dark shape formed amidst the flames where Thunderbird had stood.

It grew larger and larger until it formed into a giant bird. The creature stepped forward through the flames, tossing them aside as if they were feathers on the wind. Wood snapped and creaked under the claws of the beast, jolting Aramis each time the ominous sound cracked in his ears.

It was Thunderbird, and he emerged from the mass of smoke and flame, slow and steady; his head low, teeth bared, each movement forward imbuing fear in Aramis. It was his vision… it was the night of the attack… all over again.

Thunderbird bared his teeth in a brief smile of such brutality it stole Aramis’ breath. The razor-sharp fangs looked formidable enough to cut through bone in a single bite.

A string of curses unravelled from Aramis’ lips as Thunderbird circled them like they were his prized prey.   Even though the sun remained hidden, driven into exile by fog and smoke, his feathers shimmered like torchlight on a diamond.  

Porthos tried to gain his footing. He collapsed back to the ground with a startled look. D’Artagnan rushed to his side. Athos kept close to Aramis, his grip on Aramis’ hand cutting off circulation.

“My god,” said Athos, rising to his unsteady feet.

Aramis followed him to standing. Beside them, d’Artagnan pulled Porthos to his feet. Sweat glistened on Porthos’ forehead, his breath fired in short bursts, but he seemed capable of standing on his own.

“What the hell is happening?” asked d’Artagnan. He pulled out his sword and looked around at the others. “How is this possible?”

“How is any of this possible!” shouted Athos. His sword was poised, ready for battle, and he was watching Thunderbird slowly circling them.  

Aramis’ legs were buckling beneath him. He didn’t know how much longer he could stand. He grabbed his blade from the back of his belt and threw it at the transformed creature. It was a last ditch effort; it was all he had.

Porthos attacked next. He charged, slashing and hacking at the beast. Thunderbird tossed him aside with a swat of his arm, a guttural growl tore from Porthos’ his lips when he crashed to the ground. Porthos did not get up.

“He must be stopped!” screamed Aramis, with his sword drawn as he ran at Thunderbird.

Aramis tried to duck beneath a swing from Thunderbird’s massive winged arm, but it struck him in the side sending him tumbling backward.

His head buzzed like a beehive, drowning all other sounds as he lay in the dirt watching Thunderbird stalking his friends. He heard no screams coming from his friends open mouths, he heard no screeches from Thunderbird as swords and blades pierced his skin. There was no sound, only pain.

He looked heavenward to draw confidence, then rolled onto his stomach to rise and continue the fight…

Through the fog he spotted an array of colours.

It was the damn totem that had started all this.

Swallowing the bile the sight of the pole caused to rise in his throat, he raised to sword to aid his friends. 

A voice in his head rose above the buzzing in his mind, stopping him before he charged into the foray. _‘But first he must plant his totem so he can return.’_

It was Jeanette’s voice, once soft and sad as she read aloud from the journal. Now screaming clear and determined in his mind. 

“It’s his totem we must burn!”

Aramis looked over his shoulder and watched Athos swinging his sword, d’Artagnan beside him. Porthos was knelt in the dirt, firing his pistol as flames and feathers filled the air. Aramis realized they had not heard him over the noise of battle. He set his sight back on the totem. “I started this, I should be the one to finish it.”

He scrambled to his feet, mind awhirl with thoughts of his brothers but determined to destroy that damn totem. The terrain tangled with his feet, pitching him forward. He reached out with an outstretched arm to steady himself. His arm flailed, his feet tripped over burrows and stones, all semblance of coordination lost.

Hunched over, Aramis staggered toward the totem, his legs quickly losing strength. He fell to his knees grasping his torso, head spinning and lungs constricting. The totem was a blur of colours just out of reach.

Behind him he heard the shouts and curses of his brothers. He heard the hissing and snarling of Thunderbird and imagined the damage his claws and teeth could inflict on a human being.

“I must go on.”

He pushed up to standing, but felt air rush past his ears as he started falling back to the ground. Someone caught him before he touched earth and pulled him back up.

“I have you, Aramis,” said Jeanette.

Listing heavily to his side, Jeanette saved him from plummeting back to the ground by throwing one of his arms around her shoulder. Aramis appreciated the help, but he needed to ensure her safety.   “You must go,” he said.

“I must stay.”

“I can’t protect you.”

Jeanette smiled. “From what? Death? I think we’re past that already.”

“Good point. To the totem,” he said.

They carried on, Aramis dazed by exhaustion, Jeanette burdened by his weight, and both infuriated with the battle raging behind them. As soon as they reached the pole, Aramis collapsed on the ground.

In previous battles, he had seen action far worse than this, and all he had to do here was light a totem on fire. But never before had he felt fear and exhaustion so extreme that his body refused to obey his commands.

Aramis moved clumsily to his knees, driven by determination and the need to end this. From his pocket he pulled flint, and with a rock found at the base of the totem he banged them together.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, when the first strike did not ignite. He tried again, fingers fumbling with urgency.

“Do not worry about us.” Jeanette’s hand wrapped around one of his, calming his tremble. “My people and I deserve rest.”

Aramis thought he saw a fleeting glimmer of life in her eyes as she stared back at him. He struck the flint against the rock harder this time, with conviction. “I’m sorry.” He struck it again, anger fuelling his strength. “I’m sorry.” A shower of sparks ignited.   He grabbed a stick, lit the end, and looked at Jeanette; the sorrow within his heart surely reflected in his eyes. “Good-bye, Jeanette. May you and your people finally rest in peace.”

He lowered the torch to the base of the totem. “It’s time to send Thunderbird back to the hell he crawled out of.”

The totem lit.

Aramis turned back to where his brothers were fighting Thunderbird. Standing back from the flames, and with arms covering their faces from the heat of the inferno, Athos and d’Artagnan stood with swords still in hands. Porthos was on his knees, head down. Awake and alive.

Aramis could not see Thunderbird, but the ball of flame hovering over the ground emitting screeches and groans gave him a good idea where he was. The fire seemed to suspend in air for a moment, the flames static and unmoving, smoke no longer rising.

Then the fiery mass plunged in on itself. It sucked the air from Aramis’ lungs as it recoiled, then blew across the square like the breath from a monstrous demon, knocking Aramis onto his back. Dizzy from hitting his head, chest burning from lack of oxygen he lay there panting. His senses drowned in the stench of burning flesh and melting iron. It was the last thing he recalled before darkness claimed him.

_~M~_

The first songs of the morning birds wakened Aramis. Lying on his back, he prised open his heavy eyelids and stared at the sky. In his heart he felt that before long, the sun would appear and everything would be clear.

Ready to rise, Aramis shifted. His muscles stiffened and his bones ached from the cold morning dew penetrating his clothes. The fire crackling nearby offered comfort, but did little to chase away the chill that had taken hold of his body.  

Someone must have pulled him back from the totem, because the fire sputtering next to him now was smaller and more intimate, meant for warmth not destruction. 

Above, the clouds in the sky still covered the earth in a grey blanket, but the trees, the grass and the forest across the empty field were clear and visible.

Black Water was gone.

The church, the inn, Jeanette’s house. Everything. On the horizon, just above the tree line, the sky softened to a dim blue and the clouds thinned like lace. 

“It’s beautiful,” Aramis said, drawing surprised looks from his brothers. “The forest is green again. The leaves are brilliant.”

“And it’s peaceful,” said d’Artagnan.

Aramis crossed himself as he looked at him. “ _They_ are peaceful.”

Beside him Porthos rustled, rolled onto his back and sat up with a frown marring his features. “Yeah, it’s beautiful and all that, but I’m ready to get the ‘ell out of this place.”

“You and me both, brother,” replied Aramis. He rose to standing, bracing his torso. The twinge in his side reminded him that Thunderbird had smashed his ribs. But the pain, once a hindrance, he now welcomed. It reminded him he was alive. He looked at Porthos and smiled.

Athos and d’Artagnan helped Porthos to his feet, and Aramis studied their scrapes and bruises. He thanked God they had all escaped without serious injury.  

D’Artagnan pointed to the edge of the forest to their left. “Look.”

The three of them turned to see their horses grazing near the trees. Aramis had forgotten all about them. But as the stables had disappeared together with all of Black Water, it would only make sense their horses would be released.

Porthos gave a whistle and two of the horses turned to them. He whistled again, and all four came cantering to where they stood. “Good boys,” Porthos said, patting one of their noses. “It’s all over now, don’t you worry.”

“I pray that is truth you speak,” said Aramis.

Athos slung an arm over Aramis’ shoulder. “This may be over, and I’m glad everyone survived, but I meant what I said. You must learn to think before you act. If you get us into another situation like this, I will kill you myself.”

D’Artagnan came to stand with them, leading his horse behind him. “To be fair, if Aramis hadn’t gotten us stuck in this situation, these villagers would still be trapped. And Thunderbird would still be here to prey on other victims.”

Athos glared. “Not the point.”

“It kind of is the point,” replied d’Artagnan.

“Well, I think it’s safe to say Thunderbird won’t be trappin’ anymore victims. ” said Porthos.

D’Artagnan glanced over the empty field. “Burning the totem seems to have done the trick. Hopefully it ends him for good.” He looked back at Athos with hooded eyes. “So, are we still reporting this village to the King?”

“Absolutely not.”

**_The End._ **


End file.
